


On Teenagers & Love

by anamatics



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/F, Triwizard Tournament, Wartime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 81,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the surface, things are not always what they seem. It takes a few study dates for Hermione to warm up to the girl she thought was the ice queen from Beauxbatons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** there will be a good but of underage sexual content over the course of the story. Hermione is fifteen during Goblet of Fire and Fleur is seventeen, while they age up over the course of it, I feel it is necessary to warn the readership who might find such sexual situations triggering.  
>  There are also some mentions of general World War Two history and aspects of the Holocaust.
> 
> **Word Count:** A bajillion. Actual: 13,424. I can't write anything short.
> 
> **A/N:** International Day of Femslash challenge over at hp_femsmut.
> 
> Prompts: "First Times" and "History Lessons". No idea who submitted the 'History Lessons' prompt, but I put in the 'first times' one, lol. The Fleur-Hermione fourth year is rather overdone, but I could not resist the charm of such a story. The entire story is written in the present tense, so if that bothers you, you might want to stop reading now.
> 
> Beta'ed by Hypercaz

_"Put it on my life baby_  
I can make you feel right baby  
I can’t promise tomorrow  
But I promise tonight"  
-"Give Me Everything Tonight"

 

 _“Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.”_ – Self Reliance

The first time she sees her, she hates her on principle. A beautiful girl with a bewitching smile and a charming accent is a sure-fire way to win the hearts of the crowded Great Hall of Hogwarts, but not the heart of Hermione Granger. She is uninterested in beauty; it is a fallacy. Nothing is ever underneath the looks and the holier-than-thou attitude. She will surely not be made Triwizard Champion, Hermione thinks, and goes back to her dinner.

When Halloween comes and they pick champions, Hermione only has time to be shocked for a minute when the name that Professor Dumbledore reads as the Beauxbatons champion belongs to that same beautiful girl. Her name is Fleur Delacour, and Hermione can’t even take the time to think about the name when Harry’s name comes out of the Goblet of Fire and everything that was good and normal about her life vanishes in a cloud of angry smoke.

Ron and Harry are not speaking because of some misguided jealousy on Ron’s part, and Hermione ignores their feud to read about Fleur Delacour in the newspaper one morning. The article is unflattering, but her professors at school give her very good marks and she’s apparently at the top of her class. Hermione doesn’t know if she should be impressed or not.

She decides that maybe being a little bit impressed is reasonable after the First Task. Fleur Delacour’s dragon sets her arm on fire, but she receives good marks despite this. Cedric’s are much worse, she reasons. Harry is tied for first place, and Ron is speaking to him again. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief and goes about her business.

Viktor Krum asks her to the Yule Ball and Hermione reasons that she really should say yes. She’s annoyed that Harry hasn’t asked her to be his partner for such a grueling social ordeal, and Ron has gone and done a colossally stupid thing in shouting a date invitation at Fleur Delacour. She doesn’t even like Ron that way, so the fact that she’s annoyed by his asking Fleur Delacour out (and greatly satisfied by the subsequent rejection) is puzzling to her. She says yes to Viktor and resolves to contemplate this situation at a time when it is not quite so stressful.

 

~

 

Fleur Delacour is going to be the reason, the one and the only reason, that Hermione Granger has ever been late to Professor Binns' History of Magic class. Fleur Delacour might be the only reason that Hermione Granger has ever seriously considered outright _skipping_ Professor Binns’ class. She can’t even begin to think of herself being in this predicament at the beginning of the year. She had hated Fleur Delacour on sight, and yet now, she finds herself far more intrigued than annoyed by the champion from Beauxbatons.

Every day she is tempted with a small and private smile and a friendly query as to her destination. Every day she answers with a sad shake of her head and the name of her next class. Every day she gets up to leave at the end of the lunch hour, and every day, Fleur Delacour asks her to stay.

Hermione tries to be polite, really she does, but with time ticking down and still no discernible answer in sight, she's beginning to seriously consider taking Fleur up on her generous offer of company. Lord knows she's going to need it by fortnight's end.

The Second Task. Only two weeks away.

Harry is going to drown in that bloody lake if she can't find the answer soon.

She slams the book shut, groaning in frustration at the utter lack of information it contained.

This is useless; she might as well go to Professor Binns' class.

She stands, and the cycle begins again. Fleur glances down at her watch and then to Hermione. "Where is it zis time?" she asks, accent thick but still full of that subtle and barely hidden curiosity that Hermione finds so intriguing.

Hermione makes her way down the bookshelf, looking for the empty spot where the tome in her hands originally resided. "History of Magic," she whispers quietly, feeling her cheeks burn. She turns her attention back to surveying the stacks, afraid to look at Fleur, to hear her argument against Professor Binns' class. She (privately) hopes it can top the broken English argument against going to Potions class.

("Professeur Snape... est un bâtard complet. Why tu veux aller... I do not understand. Ze man, ‘e is toxic.")

She slides the book back into its home between two thinner volumes that have collapsed into the space that the larger book had once occupied, righting them to fit all three back on the shelf. Fleur is speaking again.

"Ze man, il est un spectre, 'ermione," Fleur is saying. She's curled up in one of those overstuffed armchairs tucked away in the corner of the stacks and out of sight of the watchful Madam Pince. They've started to retreat here, knowing that Madam Pince is onto the fact that they are more than just silent study partners. They do, on occasion, speak to each other. "I doubt zat 'e will miss you."

Hermione looks at Fleur sideways from her place halfway down the long and overfull bookshelf. She's so glad she spent the past hour flipping through a five hundred page long book that offered zero advice on how to best spend an hour breathing underwater. Another dead end, another lunch period spent in the library in the company of the beautiful and mysterious Fleur Delacour.

C'est la vie, as the French say.

Hermione wants to say that she doesn't mind the presence of Fleur, her leather book bag and her incessantly neat handwriting as she works on an essay about some advanced bit of charm work that Hermione finds absolutely _fascinating_ ; but oh, how the woman bothers her.

She cannot think around Fleur. She cannot breathe. She cannot even talk for fear of making a fool of herself.

And yet Fleur seems to tolerate her presence – to seek it out, even. Hermione has noticed this through careful experimentation and more than a few missed lunches. On the third day of sitting in the same spot at the same table at precisely twelve fifteen, a sandwich carefully wrapped in wax paper had appeared next to her elbow and behind it had extended a long fingered hand clad in a thick off-white sweater and connected to the smiling face of Fleur Delacour.

As Hermione had sat there, flabbergasted and completely at a loss for words, her stomach growled, loudly. Fleur had laughed then and asked if the seat next to her was taken.

She had nodded wordlessly and in that moment, she'd gotten herself into this mess. She couldn’t even find herself hating Fleur any more, not after those quiet conversations about nothing in particular and how completely _willing_ Fleur is to talk about anything under the sun.

"The second task is two weeks away – he's not prepared," Hermione mutters, pulling the next book down from the shelf and flipping to the table of contents. She glances at her watch and groans. "I'm not going to make it on time; Professor Binns will take points for sure."

Fleur places her finger into her own book and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. Her hair is down today, falling into her eyes and around her shoulders, bothering Hermione greatly in its unruliness. Fleur Delacour is supposed to be the picture of perfect poise and control. Now here, in this casual setting, she is anything but. Nimble fingers, still stained with ink from the morning's classes, tuck silvery-yellow hair behind an ear even more perfect than any Hermione has ever imagined. She looks away from those distracting fingers and meets Fleur's eyes, piercing blue and intent on winning whatever staring contest that they've just inadvertently gotten into.

Hermione looks away, knowing her cheeks are red and not entirely sure she knows why.

"As I said, 'ermione, 'e is a spectre. You will not be missed."

Hermione glances at her watch once more, and then back at Fleur. "But..." Her argument is futile, she can tell now. She knows that it is stretch to think that Professor Binns even notices if he has a class half the time, but she genuinely likes the class and the current subject matter is far more modern and therefore more interesting than literally hundreds of years of goblin wars. Even Hermione, who never admitted academic weakness to anyone, could find the Goblin Wars a bit tedious.

"Stay, avec moi,” Fleur demands. She uncurls herself from her perch in her armchair, sitting up properly and reaching down into her bag. She pulls out a notebook that looks worn and faded at the corners. Hermione squints at it and sees Fleur's too perfect handwriting and 'Histoire de Magie' written across the subject indicator at the top left corner. She's come prepared, this time. Hermione is impressed.

Fleur fiddles with her notebook for a minute, setting it on top of her book and carefully pulling a loose page out of the back (a quiz paper of some sort) and tucking it into the place where her finger marked her page in her book. Hermione watches those intense blue eyes - obscured now by hair and a look of intense concentration – and comes to a decision. "Je vous enseignerai - teach you - what are you studying en histoire right now?"

"French resistance to Grindelwald during World War Two," Hermione says, shoving the latest book back into the shelf and conceding defeat. She comes back to her own comfortable armchair and sits down dejectedly. She could still make it, if she hurried and cut through that passageway near McGonagall's office. She checks her watch one more time and resolves to at least listen to what Fleur has to say before she decides.

Fleur's smile at the mention of their current subject matter is not lost on Hermione. She remembers how Professor Moody told Harry once that Fleur Delacour was no more a fairy princess than he was, and she wonders if his implication was that Fleur Delacour was far, far more intelligent than she let on. Hermione would have to test that hypothesis sometime in the near future.

A single, carefully maintained nail taps thoughtfully against the cover of her notebook. Fleur Delacour stares at her with inquisitive eyes. "'ow much do you know about ze muggle resistance during zat war?"

Hermione shrugs. She can say very little on the subject - for her reading of muggle history has been sorely lacking since she came to Hogwarts. She tries to read the books her father recommends her (he is something of an amateur World War Two historian in his spare time) but she honestly does not have the time these days. With every passing year the class workload gets harder and her spare time has dwindled into almost nothing. She pulls out her class notebook and flips to the most recent page. Her notes are clear and concise as always, but she pushes it across the low table between them so that Fleur can see where exactly Professor Binns was up to. “A bit – I didn't get to go to secondary school in the muggle world – so just what I've read in books."

Fleur turns a few pages back in Hermione's notebook. Her face is impassive, but Hermione can see her eyes flicking across the pages rapidly. She reads quickly for one who does not speak the language all that well. "Do you find zem good, zese books?" Fleur asks offhandedly, closing Hermione's notebook with a snap and opening her own. She passes Hermione's back across the table.

"Naturally," Hermione replies, taking her notebook back and watching Fleur with almost nervous eyes.

"C'est... C'est bon, zen, I ask you to forget what it is zat zey taught you.” Unnaturally blue eyes look up now, their eyes piercing into Hermione's own curious stare. Never before has Hermione been told forget what she's learned in a book; she does not know how to handle such a request. She opens her mouth to speak, but Fleur silences her with a jerk of her head, shaking it slightly in the negative. Hermione watches her warily, as Fleur seems to choose her words carefully. "La Résistance Française cannot be learned in mere _books_."

And that is how Hermione Granger ended up skipping her first ever History of Magic class.

 

~

 

The French Resistance against Grindelwald’s forces during World War Two did not fare much better than the muggle resistance against the Nazis had. Hermione is surprised to learn just how closely both parties worked together during the war. Professor Binns has touched upon it, but he is too caught up in following the overarching narrative of Grindelwald’s rise to and eventual fall from power to go into what the Nazis were up to during that time. Fleur seems to have no such qualms, and speaks at length about the differences between the two groups and how they worked parallel but not together most of the time. Grindelwald was not opposed to the mass murder that the Nazis committed, but he did not favor such _selective_ extermination.

Fleur says that if Grindelwald had had his way, the deaths from Europe alone would have been much closer to 60 million in civilian casualties compared to the current estimate of around 45 million, and that was just the muggles. Hundreds of thousands of wizards died during that war, deaths that have never been added to the official figures that Hermione’s father has shown her.

Hermione remembers Anthony Goldstein mentioning once during Professor Binns’ class that a few of his extended family members had lived on the continent and she wonders if they had been rounded up by Grindelwald or the Nazis or both. She had friends, back in primary school, who were also scarred by that great wound, and Hermione feels her heart go out to them as Fleur tells her this story.

If she has anything to do with it, nothing like that will ever happen again.

Fleur tells her how when Marshall Philippe Pétain became the premier, his surrender to Hitler was a carefully orchestrated move in order to prevent further loss of life by both the muggle and wizarding governing bodies. Hermione isn't sure she believes Fleur at first, as a great many people, muggles and wizard alike, died after the Nazis took France. She points this out and Fleur simply raises an eyebrow and says that she is the one teaching Hermione and not the other way around.

Hermione resolves to not ask questions after that.

With the Germans everywhere, Grindelwald's forces were able to move in, aiding the Nazis in catching as many who resisted as possible. In France, Fleur laments, they were no longer after those of mixed heritage, but rather anyone who did not fit the perfect ideal of the wizard, of the Aryan, or of both. Everything _he_ (and she was not specific here) did was for the 'greater good'. Fleur had spat that out, anger in her eyes. Hermione wonders how many of Fleur's family died during that time.

Fleur shakes her head at the mention of the Vichy Government in Hermione’s class notes when Hermione turns back a few pages and asks a question about their role in all this. She tells Hermione that she is from the south of France, that it is there that her family had lived for generations. Her parents were young still, but the remnants of that government even cut into the wizarding community there. Vichy was entirely a muggle creation, Fleur explains, but there had been a few of Grindelwald's closest advisors pulling strings behind the scenes.

They created a secret police within Vichy’s own secret police force. Fleur compares them to the sniffers that Voldemort had used during his time in power. They made people _disappear_ \- collecting people who seemed innocuous to the muggle secret police and sending them to a place worse than death of the Dark Wizard's own creation.

Grindelwald had set up a mirror death camp to the one the Nazis were using in the occupied French territory just to the north of the Vichy border. All Beauxbatons students are required to go there during their second year, for it is important to the French wizarding government that they learn from the horrors of the past. Fleur tells Hermione about the nightmares she had for weeks after going.

"And the resistance?" Hermione asks, on the edge of her seat and full of worry at the idea of Fleur having nightmares. She cannot explain her concern, and she frankly does not want to. It is just a horrible idea, this concept of Fleur Delacour (who Hermione is very quickly learning is not Practically-Perfect-In-Every-Way) being plagued with bad dreams about the horrors of the past.

She supposes that collective memory scars a lot deeper in a place where the war was actually fought, rather than merely attacked.

"Ah, La Résistance," Fleur says fondly, as if recalling a folk hero. "Zey did not much care for Vichy and Pétain's clever plan to save France." She bridges her fingers and looks at Hermione sideways with those strange blue eyes for a moment before beginning her explanation.

It turns out that a difference in opinions and being sympathizers with the Nazis and Grindelwald was the _least_ of Vichy’s offenses. Pétain had apparently erased something from what was considered to be so core to the collective French psyche by creating a 'new order' and by taking away what Hermione had always been taught to be the true moto of the French people.

The first time she hears it from Fleur's lips, she is struck. She's never heard it in French, as spoken by a French national. She has half a mind to say 'God Save the Queen' right after it, but thinks better of it. She knows how the French feel about their nobility.

"Liberté, fraternité, égalité," Fleur whispers reverently. "'e took zat away from us." She stares off into the distance. "Even in ze wizarding communautés, it is so core. We would not stand for it."

They lapse into silence then, Hermione thinking about the implications of what Fleur is saying, about how it changes her perception of the French wizarding government. She is filled with questions, mostly as to why Professor Binns never mentions this when he talks about that period of time in history. There’s three major goblin wars, a giant uprising and all of the nonsense with witch burnings in America on top of several very important muggle historical events. Why does Professor Binns never talk about how the muggle events might have correlated or even have causative or reactionary affects based on the wizarding ones?

Hermione decides that next time she sees Professor Binns she’ll ask him.

A few minutes of silent contemplation later, Fleur adds, "Did you know that Charles de Gaulle was a wizard?"

No, Hermione had not known that, but suddenly it all makes sense.

Charles de Gaulle had spent much of his time during the war exiled in London. Her father has told her how Churchill could not stand the man, and she smiles a little knowing that a ‘good sensible man’ like Winston Churchill probably would not have taken very well to knowing that there was a wizard in exile living in his country.

Via radio broadcast, Fleur explains quietly as Madam Pince walks by, he was able to organize and get the word out about how to avoid the camps and the conscription. Hermione knows this; her father has been marveling at Charles de Gaulle’s ability to orchestrate things in absentia for years. Being a wizard would make his acts so much more believable. She can’t wait to tell her father. She makes Fleur write down the name of a book that Fleur thinks is also available in English and sends an owl order off to Flourish and Blots as soon as she can.

Fleur smiles quietly at this, and goes back to telling Hermione her story. She talks about how de Gaulle probably was not the leader that he made himself into after the war, something that Hermione already knew, but it is nice to have confirmation on it. But de Gaulle did start a pattern of resistance that can be pointed to as a method that future groups used against Voldemort during his reign of terror.

Hermione contemplates this, and thanks Fleur for the lesson as the bell rings. Fleur says nothing for a long moment, her cheeks reddening as Hermione holds out her hand to her.

“In France, we do not _shake_ ‘ands,” Fleur says, standing fluidly and placing her hands firmly on Hermione’s shoulders. She kisses Hermione’s cheeks, first one, and then the other. “Au revoir, ‘ermione,” she says.

She is bright red, but Hermione manages a squeaky “Bye!” as she hurries out of the library.

 

~

 

She has History of Magic every Monday, Wednesday and Friday right after lunch and Hermione Granger has not been to class in a week. She's retreated into the library, into that far corner away from the prying eyes of anyone who might look for her, and into Fleur Delacour's intriguing way of teaching.

Fleur Delacour is many things to Hermione; she can't even begin think of how to order her thoughts on the matter. She spends her lunch periods silently eating sandwiches and searching for underwater magic that could possibly help Harry with the Second Task. She spends her lunch periods watching Fleur Delacour write Transfiguration and Potions essays – watching her prowl the stacks and pull out novels from amid the thousands of reference books. She watches Fleur Delacour, the way she moves, the way that she twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she reads, the way her nose scrunches up when she can’t quite figure out a word in English.

Hermione spends the class period after lunch being taught about 'La Résistance Française' and she has to stop herself from referring to it as such in the most recent essay for Professor Binns. He gives her an O and tells her to keep up the good work before floating past her into the wall as she's on her way to Arithmancy on Friday. "Do try to come to class eventually, Miss Granger," his ghostly voice trails off as she stands there, stunned at how _little_ he seems to care that she's skipped his class for a week.

Hermione decides that she has to go back. She is reluctant to give up the extended time she now has to spend around Fleur, and she struggles with it the entire weekend. Ron tells her to do what she wants and Harry tells her to ask Fleur for a tip about the Second Task.

To Harry, she retorts that if Fleur hasn't worked out the clue yet, she is not going to take away Harry's competitive advantage.

It is then that she begins to wonder why Fleur has offered to be her teacher. It is strange to have a teacher so passionate about the subject matter. Passion is something that Fleur Delacour has in spades. Hermione could listen to her talk for hours, and sometimes wishes that she could linger in the library to hear more of her beautiful voice.

"La Résistance Française," Fleur says on Monday after Hermione has carefully folded up the wax paper from her chicken sandwich. She is going to have to start surprising Fleur with lunch at some point. She doesn't like the idea of Fleur thinking she doesn't feed herself. "’ow do 'ou think of it so far?"

Hermione sets her quill down and regards Fleur critically. "I think I have a biased instructor," she says with a laugh. "But a brilliant teacher."

Fleur seems to contemplate this, adjusting herself in her armchair and fixing her skirt. She looks up after a moment, eyes intensely blue and boring into Hermione's very soul. "'ow soon will ze professeur move on... from zis subject?"

She honestly does not know. With Professor Binns it is hard to guess. She shrugs, not really knowing what to say. Harry and Ron both sleep through the class anyway, so it is not as though they would be able to tell her that they're talking about something else in class now. In the few moments when she's perfectly honest with herself, she doesn't ever want to go back to Professor Binns' class. Fleur Delacour's voice is _much_ nicer to listen to, and the way that she finds herself furiously blushing every time Fleur leans in close to take a look at what she's writing down is most intriguing and deserving of further investigation.

"Professor Binns tends to... go on a bit." She isn't lying, not really. "I don't know how long it'll be."

There's a wicked smile on Fleur's face, and she scoots closer to Hermione. Her voice is low, almost predatory. Hermione wants to push away, but finds herself trapped and immobile. Since when has she become powerless against this woman's charm?

"Zen I shall continue to teach you. It 'as been... how do you English say? Un moment..." Fleur trails off, searching for the right word.

"A minute?" Hermione ventures. She's never fancied learning the French language before this moment; it has skyrocketed up her list of things to do whenever she has free time again. If she knew the language, she could speak to Fleur in it, and she could hear that beautiful voice speaking without the constant hesitation of not fully grasping the language it was speaking.

Fleur shakes her head. She seems to be concentrating hard, her eyes narrowed as she thinks. Hermione watches as her lips - oh so perfect in their shape and how Hermione longs to lean forward and touch them - form several soundless words, Fleur's head shaking every time the word is incorrect. It is fascinating to see one who has such a good grasp of the language struggle to find the right word.

Finally, Fleur is triumphant. "It has been a _while_ , since I 'ave 'ad un étudiante - a student - so willing." She looks down at her nails and Hermione can see a slight tinge of pink on Fleur's cheeks. "Merci, 'ermione, truly. Merci."

Yes, this penchant for blushing by the two of them when in close quarters to the other deserves further investigation.

 

~

 

The first time Hermione Granger is kissed it is not by Viktor Krum, though it is right in front of him. Hermione hopes he doesn't mind too much, but Fleur looks as cold as Hermione feels and together with teeth chattering they seem to warm each other up, just a little bit. Over the din of the crowd as the judges debate scores, Fleur holds her little sister close to her, gauze wrapped around her neck. Hermione had helped pull the girl out of the water, and had cast a warming charm far above her year in school over the little girl before Madam Pomfrey could even get close enough to do any diagnostic spells. When the matron had given her an odd look, Hermione had merely shrugged and said the girl was shaking. She'd held out her hand to Ron then, doing the same for her best friend, watching as Fleur hovered anxiously and held Gabrielle close to her.

"Grindylows?" Hermione asks after a moment of silently chattering her teeth in Fleur's direction.

"Zey broke my bubblehead charm," Fleur mutters angrily. "Je suis une tache - I cannot be champion if zis keeps 'appening."

Fleur's sister pulls on Hermione's soggy robes and Hermione leans down, listening intently as the girl is barely speaking above a whisper and her voice is shaking. It is so loud here, as the three schools roar around them. "Ma soeur, she 'as need of – ahhhh – comfort."

Hermione smiles, and wraps her towel around the smaller girl. "You do as well, little one." She stands and faces Fleur, scooting towards her. She feels strangely confident, and as she moves closer, Fleur lifts her arm and Hermione tucks herself into the space there, under the blanket and the towel and a far stronger warming charm than she's ever been able to muster.

"You are very sweet, 'ermione," Fleur whispers. "You care for 'er, for Gabrielle, even zough you do not know her from a ‘ippogryph."

She blinks, not knowing how to respond to Fleur's compliment. "I just want to help."

Fleur leans in, brushing ice cold lips across Hermione's equally freezing ones. "You are sweet, chérie." They sit there, huddled against the cold for several more minutes, before Dumbledore announces the final scores and Fleur leaves to go thank Harry and Ron for their heroics.

Icy fingers raise shakily to touch burning hot lips, her cheeks flushed a bright red.

Fleur Delacour had stolen Hermione Granger's first kiss, and she'd stolen it as though it had been the simplest thing in the world.

 

~

 

Hermione doesn't go back to the library the Monday after the Second Task during her lunch hour. She has no reason to. Her need to research underwater breathing methods had been gleefully answered by Dobby the House Elf and Professor Binns had finally moved on from the French Resistance to another topic on Grindelwald's reign of terror. At least, that is what she tells herself as she listens to Harry and Ron argue with Ginny over Quidditch national rankings and half-pays attention to Parvati trying to get her to share details of how good a kisser Viktor Krum is. She wouldn't know, she says testily, she hasn't kissed him.

She has kissed two of the champions, though. Just not the ones that would be expected of her. Harry when he was twelve when he had just saved the entire school from a giant evil snake, and Fleur Delacour - only that was certainly not Hermione _kissing_ anyone, but rather being abruptly assaulted with freezing cold lips. Fleur had said it was a thank you, but the French pet name she only ever heard in movies was not lost to her. Hermione guards this secret with her life. She doesn't want Rita Skeeter catching wind of it. The damn woman would have a field day.

Her fork, balled up with a bit of lettuce, is half way to her mouth when Harry and Ron suddenly stop talking, staring towards the doors at the end of the Great Hall. Hermione follows their gaze, setting her fork down and staring at the serenely beautiful, if very angry-looking, form of Fleur Delacour. Hermione swallows. She thinks she knows why Fleur Delacour is angry.

She probably should have gone to the library today, to tell Fleur that she wouldn't be coming back for a while. Or to maybe have arranged a different meeting time. Anything to not have Fleur looking so angry at her.

Hermione knows why she did not go; the feel of freezing lips pressed against her own and the shock of how that small gesture of gratitude and affection filled her with such confusion that she did not know what to say - or how to feel. Her fingers clench into a white knuckled fist as she resists the urge to run. There is something terrifying about the way that Fleur Delacour is moving towards her with a bestial rage that seems to be just barely hidden beneath the woman’s pale skin.

Fleur draws level with the Gryffindor table, and stalks down the side opposite Hermione, very purposefully not looking anywhere in particular. The eyes of the students who have noticed her (every man and a good bit of the women) watch her cautiously, wondering why she looks so livid. Hermione knows that Ron likes it when they walk in those tight Beauxbatons uniforms that leave so little to the imagination, but she can't help but feel a flush rising to her cheeks as she watches Fleur approach. The memory of their kiss is still fresh in her mind.

"She looks right ticked," Ron whispers, and Harry elbows him in the stomach.

Hermione swallows hotly, and Fleur comes to a stop, standing just behind Ginny, her expression livid. "I zought zat we 'ad an arrangement, 'ermione."

God, she is beautiful when she's angry.

Hermione opens her mouth, closes it, and looks away from piercing blue eyes. She hates being the center of attention, hates it when people are watching her and she hates that she cannot control what they're thinking. She's just a girl, entangled with yet another champion (she collects them like pogs or something, she swears she isn't trying to) and full of fear of what will happen when the school finds out what Fleur did.

Suddenly, this has become far too public a venue. Hermione stands, gathering her things and wordlessly slinging her book bag over her shoulder. She does not speak to Fleur – she barely spares her a glance as she stalks out of the Great Hall, knowing full well that most of the eyes of Hogwarts are upon her. The soft sound of shoes against flagstones tells her that Fleur is following her.

Good.

Hermione climbs stairs and cuts through half-hidden secret passages, trying to think of a place where they can truly be alone. She has to ask Fleur _why_. She knows that the French are different, that they convey affection in different ways, but that kiss had not been one of those ways. That had been a hesitant peck, something one did with a girlfriend, with someone they wanted to fall in love with.

Hermione is not a fool, certainly not a fool for love.

She's lying to herself when she says it cannot happen again. Fleur's lips are too intriguing, and her kiss too wonderful, for Hermione to never experience it again.

"Arrêtez-vous, 'ermione," Fleur says as they reach the sixth floor. There are a few empty rooms up here where they won't be disturbed. Hermione taps the first door handle she sees with her wand and whispers the unlocking charm. When there are no three-headed dogs and only the smell of old chalk to greet her, she feels satisfied enough with their location to turn and face Fleur.

"’ou stood me up," Fleur fumes. She's almost predatory like this, hands folded moodily across her chest and her eyes flashing dangerously. She's advancing on Hermione now, arms dropping, moving, preventing Hermione from dodging out of the way.

"I was not aware we had a date," Hermione retorts. She's backed up against the wall now, Fleur leaning in close to her, breathing heavily against her. It's almost too much. Fleur is staring at her intently, blue eyes harsh and glinting dangerously. Hermione wants to slide down the wall, to escape, but she finds she cannot move. She's too paralyzed by the fear of what Fleur might say or do. She swallows, and then continues, "I needed some time to think."

Fleur tilts her head to the side, blonde hair still trapped in that pony tail that Hermione hates so much cascading down over her shoulder. Hermione longs to reach out and touch it, to run her fingers through it, to be close to Fleur once again. "Pourquoi?" Fleur asks and Hermione knows enough French to understand the meaning of that particular word - _why_.

Her cheeks burn, and she looks away. "You kissed me," she mutters. "I... I'm not gay." At least, she didn't think she was. She's never really been attracted to anyone before - save Fleur. And she was _very_ attracted to her.

"No one ever said 'ou were, 'ermione," Fleur laughs. Hermione can almost bring herself to not feel mortified any more at the gleeful triumph in Fleur's eyes. She exhales slowly, and tries to smile back. She nearly succeeds when Fleur pushes her hard against the wall and kisses her once again.

Unlike the last time, this kiss is not innocent. It tastes of warmth and of passion whereas the other one was freezing cold and devoid of anything other than tentative adolescent exploration. Fleur's tongue is everywhere, and Hermione gasps as Fleur grabs her hands and forces them above her head, not letting her touch, not letting her move.

"Alzough, I do zink zat 'ou are not opposed to expérimentation," Fleur continues, her lips still half pressed against Hermione's and Hermione's nodding her agreement. She likes this, likes the idea of where this is going. Fleur's tugging at Hermione's tie, loosening it, pulling at the knot. Hermione can only imagine what Fleur is going to do when she gets it loose. "Zis is okay, zen? You are of ze scientific mindset - non?"

Her heart is thudding in her chest, but Hermione realizes that Fleur will stop if Hermione says no. She whimpers, her head just barely moving up and down in agreement. Her voice sounds almost alien to her, low and more intrigued than nervous. "Yes," she whispers, and when Fleur tilts her head to the side, Hermione hastily adds, "To erm-both." A smile erupts across Fleur's face and she's got Hermione's tie undone and is wrapping it around the candelabra right above her head. Gryffindor colors cut across her wrists as Fleur secures her hands above her head, leaving her open, vulnerable - wet, wanting.

"Zen zis is an 'ypothesis." Fleur smiles wickedly, fingers nimbly undoing the buttons on Hermione's school shirt. "I am going to make you come, make you scream, make you beg for more. And zen, and only zen, tu peux me dire si 'ou are 'omosexual."

"Are you?" Hermione grinds out after struggling to form a coherent thought. She knows Fleur well enough to know that if she wanted to say no, she could. She doesn't want to stop this feeling though. This is better than any of her fantasies. She feels so wonderfully out of control, and Fleur is enjoying driving her higher.

Fleur pauses, a pensive look on her face. Blue eyes turn darker with something that Hermione will later learn is desire. "When it suits me." Her lips are harsh, angry, biting and bruising and Hermione wants more.

Never before has it been like that. She's experimented a bit, masturbated to see what it felt like after her parents gave her one of those 'growing up for girls' books when she started her period. It was hard to do such things in the Gryffindor dormitories, with two other girls living in close quarters to her. There is next to no privacy and when there is, Hermione is far more likely to use it for sleeping. Up until this year, that is. Now she's touched herself thinking of Fleur, thinking of other people, but never like this. It had always been innocent, child-like, not so deeply sexual. She doesn't know how to act, how to think, how to breathe.

She wants to touch Fleur, to pull that stupid Beauxbatons jacket off of her and to touch the skin she knows it is hiding. She can't move, she doesn't want it to be like this – not her first time, anyway. She’s not opposed to trying this again in the future.

"Let me go," she whispers, her voice taking on a hard edge as Fleur freezes.

"Is zat what you want?" Fleur asks, her lips against Hermione's ear. Her teeth are sharp, grazing against sensitive skin that makes Hermione shiver.

Hermione shakes her head. "I've never..."

Fleur smiles wickedly. "Oh, je le sais." Her eyes are hard, dark and lusty. She leans in, brushing her lips against Hermione's swollen and over-stimulated ones. "Zat is part of ze fun."

"Can we have this fun properly?" Hermione asks, glad that Fleur has backed off, just a little bit, so that she can think again. "I mean, how am I supposed to help you prove your hypothesis if I cannot have you too?"

Logic, the greatest weakness of great witches and wizards everywhere.

Fleur considers this, flicking her wand and wordlessly banishing Hermione's tie (she'll have to get Fleur to bring it back later – she only has a few of them to last the entire year and they're always getting ruined). "Allons-y, zen."

Hermione isn't a seventh year about to take her NEWTs. She's not even in her OWL year, but she's good at Transfiguration and Charms. She wants to turn one of the desks into something more comfortable, but Fleur's fingers close over her wand hand and she shakes her head. "I will," Fleur says and does the spell quickly and efficiently. Sometimes, Hermione catches herself wondering why Fleur's even competing in the Triwizard Tournament, but it is moments like this – such as during their impromptu history lessons – that Hermione realizes that the Goblet of Fire made the right choice. Fleur Delacour is an amazing witch.

Her fingers are pulling at Fleur's jacket; her own shirt is already unbuttoned and hanging open. There's ties and more fabric than Hermione knows what to do with. "Offff," Hermione mutters, frustrated at Fleur's stupid jacket and its lack of cooperation.

Fleur's fingers are on her own, helping with hidden buttons and clasps. She pulls off the jacket, triumphant, and Fleur pushes her down onto the newly transfigured mattress. Her hair has come undone and Hermione finds herself framed by Fleur's pale blonde mane of hair. She reaches up, her fingers tentatively touching Fleur's hair. She's suddenly afraid, fearful of what she's doing.

Is this even right?

And then Fleur's lips brush against her own, their movements ginger, as if afraid to disturb her. Hermione realizes that she doesn't much care if she's doing something wrong right now. Nothing that is so wrong should feel so right. Fleur's lips move against her own, whispering things that Hermione can't understand. She doesn't speak French; she wishes she could.

Even then, she could not communicate in this language. This was the language you did not learn in the classroom, but rather in the bedroom.

Fleur Delacour was an excellent teacher, after all.

Her hands have grown bolder, and as Fleur moves from her lips down to kiss Hermione's neck, she tentatively slides them up along Fleur's thighs, pushing her skirt up, tentatively touching skin. She's marveling at how soft it is, at how good it feels under her fingers. She squeezes gently, experimentally - as this is, after all, just a science experiment - and Fleur _growls_ into her neck. Hermione feels a thrill of pleasure shoot down between her legs and her back arches up and into Fleur.

Fleur's hands have found her's again, pulling them away from that oh so soft skin and pinning them once more above her head. "Zat is quite enough of zat," Fleur says, her grip firm. She's shoved Hermione's bra up and out of the way, her lips pressing against the soft skin of her breast. Hermione moans – she can't help herself, it’s never felt this good before.

Curious lips close over her already far-too-excited nipple and Fleur releases her hands once again. Hermione's hands tangle in Fleur's hair as Fleur begins to fumble for the zipper on her skirt. Hermione doesn't know why she's doing this – her skirt is bunched around her hips as it is – and shifts her legs to drive this point home.

"You do not know what you do to me," Fleur whispers, her tongue flicking out over Hermione's nipple. She shifts, moving to lavish the other with the same affection, fingers replacing her mouth, toying with the pert nub, driving Hermione wild with want.

Hermione can't think; she can't even breathe. Her words are coming out all wrong, garbled up and full of breathy moans that she would have looked down her nose judgmentally at just hours ago. She never thought of herself as one of _those_ women, the ones that come completely undone during sex, but Fleur's fingers and tongue and the way that Fleur's hair feels tangled up around her fingers beg to differ.

Fleur bites down, sucking greedily with her teeth and her tongue, the pain and drowning sensation going straight between Hermione's legs, pooling there, making her squirm. Hermione recalls, dimly, that in her fantasies, she is the one doing this to Fleur. She is the one who longs to shake that serene calm and to wipe the quietly amused smile off of Fleur's face.

Hot kisses trail down her stomach, Fleur's lips burning their path, pausing to linger on her hip. Fleur spends a prolonged moment on the spot just below Hermione's bellybutton that she's never thought as particularly interesting, but God, it feels amazing to have lips brush against the sensitive skin there.

Where did her skirt go? She doesn't remember Fleur taking it off.

"Why-- are you still dressed?" Hermione demands as Fleur stops for a moment, her breath hot and heavy against Hermione's knickers. The sensation is maddening, and she squirms, knowing that the evidence of her arousal must be showing through the thin cotton of her underwear. Hermione swallows. "This experiment won't work if you're dressed." She knows she sounds stupid, whiny even, but she knows she has a point.

Fleur sits up, her hands already unbuttoning her uniform shirt. She's giving Hermione this look that Hermione cannot place, as though she's trying to figure something particularly difficult out. Her shirt is discarded, set down on top of Hermione's skirt (so _that's_ where it went, she thinks) and Fleur is kissing her once again.

This kiss is hard, forceful; Fleur's tongue is in her mouth, exploring, pushing in and out, not giving Hermione a chance to suck on it. She pushes her own tongue back, colliding with Fleur's attack in a fierce duel. Hermione's hands are on Fleur's back, feeling the skin there, tentatively toying with the back of her bra. She wants to undo it, but she's hesitating, wondering if this moment is even _real_.

Her hands move seemingly of their own accord, pulling at the fabric, undoing the clasps, letting the garment release its cargo. Fleur sits up, adjusting herself so that she’s straddling Hermione. She’s holding her bra up, covering herself and Hermione wants it _off_.

“Take it off,” Hermione says, her eyes narrowed, her chest heaving. Her own bra is shoved up around her chin, her breasts just beginning to show the love bites that Fleur so lovingly bestowed upon them. She doesn’t think it is fair, and she wants to see what Fleur’s been hiding under that infernal Beauxbatons uniform.

A coy smile plays at the edges of Fleur’s lips, masked as they are by the shadows of her hair, falling over her shoulders and distracting Hermione from her end goal. Fleur is so damn beautiful, it is almost inhuman.

And then there are breasts. Hermione can’t look away; Fleur’s tossed her bra aside and has pushed her back down. Their lips meet and Hermione’s hands come up, tentatively touching the newly-exposed skin. Her fingers pull on already-aroused nipples – she enjoys how Fleur gasps into their kiss, and how her body seems to tremble under the carefully applied pressure that Hermione is placing on her breasts.

Almost too soon, though, Fleur pulls away, fingers running along the length of Hermione's thighs, pausing at their juncture, lingering over the obvious mark of Hermione's arousal. Fleur's smile becomes smug, and she presses down, her fingers drawing a groan out of Hermione. "Do you like zis?" Fleur asks, her fingers beginning to pull on the fabric that stood as the boundary between Hermione and becoming completely undone.

Hermione swallows. Her cheeks are bright red, her chest is rising and falling and she cannot look away from Fleur's eyes. They're half-lidded and full of desire. Hermione can see how Fleur's nostrils flare, and how she seems completely and totally fixated on where her hands are and how unbelievably slowly they're moving. She nods, watching as Fleur's lips jerk upwards.

"'ow is ze experement, mmmmn?" Fleur continues, her grin widening as she hooks her fingers around the waistband of Hermione's kickers and pulls them down and off in a motion that is so seamless it must be practiced. Hermione lies there, the cool air of the classroom hitting her sex, driving her wild with small sensations. She's watching Fleur, wondering why Fleur is backing away, lying down, her legs twisted together and bent at the knee. Hermione doesn't understand, until Fleur leans in close, blonde hair brushing against over sensitive thighs, and blows gently.

Hermione throbs. Her body contorts, arching up towards Fleur's mouth, dimly aware of firm hands on her hips holding her in place as Fleur continues to scoot herself forward. She wants Fleur to touch her, but she doesn't know how to ask. She's almost afraid to, afraid of what Fleur might say or do if she asks.

"Non, séjour là, chérie," Fleur whispers, her breath brushing against overstimulated and over sensitive skin. Her tongue follows the breath of air, a tentative kiss, and then another. Hermione thinks that she's died, gone to heaven, and still is drowning in the sensation of Fleur's hot tongue playing along her clit. All the sensation in her body has been driven there, to the points where Fleur's tongue lingers, circling and flicking over hot bundles of nerves. Fleur trails deeper, her fingers pressing hard into Hermione's hips, holding her steady as her tongue pushes deep into Hermione.

"Fl..." Hermione groans, trying to say Fleur's name, trying to say anything. She can't, she can't. Her thighs are shaking and her fingers are buried in Fleur's hair, holding her head in place and resolutely refusing to be moved. She knows she's pulling Fleur's hair, that it probably hurts, but she does not care. Fleur's tongue has taken everything from her, and she is a single entity around that sensation. "Pleaseee," she groans, knowing that she sounds pitiful and desperate. She can't help it; she doesn't even think she would if she could.

Fleur is sucking on her clit now, tongue swirling and Hermione knows that it won't be long. She's too turned on, so aroused that she can't even think straight. Her body moves of its own accord, twisting, trying to get away from the maddening sensation, but Fleur holds firm. She does not relent her attack and Hermione begins to shake, her body clenching tightly around Fleur, desperate to get away, and yet dying to never move again.

When she finally does come, it is over far more quickly than she expected. Hermione likes to draw it out, to stay in that blissful state for as long as possible when she masturbates, but Fleur needs to breathe and Hermione is probably suffocating her. She relaxes, and Fleur pushes herself up, dragging her body upwards and over Hermione's still sensitive one. Her lips press against Hermione's and she tastes herself for the first time, tangy and intriguing, definitely worthy of a second sampling, preferably at a later date.

Their kiss is languid, slow, and Hermione finds herself calming, her breath coming in deep, no longer in short pants.

Fleur's hand is in between her own legs as they lie next to each other, and Hermione bats it away, eager to touch and to please. Fleur is so wet and Hermione's fingers slide easily inside as she touches her lover for the first time. She moves slowly, her breathing still returning to normal, her eyes never leaving Fleur's. She's calmed down enough to be able to move now, and she pushes Fleur onto her back. "I think your experiment is a success, Professor Delacour."

The smile that greets her as she moves to kiss Fleur's neck is triumphant.

At dinner later, Hermione hears one of Fleur's friends from Beauxbatons ask her where she was all afternoon. She smiles, full of the private knowledge that she has had what all of Hogwarts desires and tunes out the conversation, not wanting to appear rude. She's only half listening to Ginny talk about Professor Moody's class when she hears some incredulous gasping and a very smug "Oui, on a pris notre pied". Fleur's fingers are covering Gabrielle's ears, and their voices are not raised, but even Hermione, who doesn’t speak much French at all, has a pretty good idea of what Fleur just said.

 

~

 

The first time they get caught is in May. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, it is by Professor McGonagall. Hermione is mortified. McGonagall seems completely affronted that Hermione has her hands up the champion from Beauxbatons’ shirt and is in the process of leaving a rather spectacular hickey on her neck. Fleur seems completely unperturbed, if suddenly incapable of speaking the English language. It is a handy defense mechanism, not to mention a completely unfair one.

Hermione is in the process of being killed by schoolwork. She can barely make it to the library to see Fleur any more. They’ve started to meet in the evenings, as Fleur is researching spells for the Third Task and working on her school work as Hermione, Harry and Ron all franticly try to finish the mountain of work they’ve been set.

Sometimes Fleur sits with them, though more often than not she sits with Viktor Krum. They are sometimes also joined by some of the other students for their respective schools, sometimes alone. Fleur’s sister went home not long after the Second Task, and Hermione can tell that Fleur desperately misses her. Hermione does too, to an extent, because Gabrielle was always fun to have at the table with them. She is still young, still getting the basics of wizarding education before she, too, starts at Beauxbatons, but she is unafraid to ask Hermione questions. Hermione likes being able to teach, and feels the loss of Gabrielle’s bright eyes and smiling face from the table where Fleur and Viktor now sit like an empty pang in her chest.

Harry watches them at their table behind his glasses and Ron glares at Krum whenever he can get away with it. He is still angry that Viktor brought Hermione to the Yule Ball. Hermione thinks they’re both positively adolescent, and is glad that Viktor seems to understand that she’s not really ready for a relationship with him. She told him not long after the Second Task – not long after Fleur…

He seems to understand and she thinks that he knows that she is _far_ too young to be involved with someone like him.

“I’m done,” Harry announces, throwing down his quill and blowing on his essay to dry the ink. Hermione eyes it for a minute, but holds her tongue. His handwriting is abysmal and he’s misspelled at least three words in the first paragraph alone. He’ll ask for her help if he wants it, she reasons.

Ron finishes a few minutes later and he and Harry leave the library together. Hermione is still checking her essay for mistakes and tells them that she’ll be along shortly. She hasn’t made any so far, but she’s worried that if she has, she’ll have to rewrite the paper. She adds another citation, carefully referencing the page number in her text before marking it down, and glances over at Fleur.

They’re alone now.

Hermione’s cheeks redden – she hadn’t seen Viktor leave. She busies herself with her work, finishing her read through and pretending that she doesn’t feel Fleur’s eyes on her. That she doesn’t feel herself start to squirm in her chair, knowing what is probably going through Fleur’s mind.

Finally, she’s satisfied. She tucks her essay back into her school bag and sets her books on the cart by the circulation desk to be put back in their respective locations. Madam Pince is going to shoo them out of the library in a few minutes anyway so Hermione doesn’t want to get caught deep in the stacks with an armful of books. Madam Pince likes her, but not that much.

Hermione leaves the library and turns right, not heading towards the staircase and Gryffindor, but rather on a longer route that will take her past a secluded alcove that she’s been eyeing for the past few days as a perfectly reasonable and out-of-the-way location for some further experimentation. She sets down her book bag and waits – Fleur will be along shortly.

“I ‘ad zought zat ‘ou ‘ad left wizout saying goodbye,” Fleur comments a moment later when Hermione reaches out from her hiding place and pulls her into the alcove.

Hermione says nothing, standing on her tip-toes and kissing Fleur. She has Fleur pushed back against the cool stone of the castle walls, her lips moving against Fleur’s, telling her that she could never say goodbye.

Fleur’s arms wrap around her waist and Hermione leans in closer, her tongue pushing forward. She loves kissing Fleur, loves how Fleur doesn’t seem to mind letting Hermione take the lead. It makes it so much easier to really be _sure_ about the suspicion that she’s been allowing to fester since Fleur first kissed her after the Second Task.

“Chérie,” Fleur whispers as Hermione pushes her shirt collar aside and kisses the spot that she knows will make Fleur moan. She lingers there, her fingers playing with the hem of Fleur’s shirt, grateful that it had been a warm day and Fleur is not wearing that infernal jacket that Hermione hates so much. “Come back to ze carriage wiz me,” Fleur says, her voice coming in soft pants as Hermione pushes her hands up Fleur’s shirt. “I ‘ave my own room.”

Hermione’s fingers pause as she considers this, her lips never moving from their assault on Fleur’s neck. She’s leaving a mark and she does not care. She wants people to know that Fleur is _hers_ , that she’s taken.

_She pulls away, acceptance and agreement on her lips, when she is rudely interrupted by a bright light and the very scandalized-sounding voice of Professor McGonagall. “Miss Granger!”_

Hermione gulps, pushing away from Fleur and squinting in the bright light emanating from the end Professor McGonagall’s wand. They are in so much trouble. “Er… Hello Professor,” she says lamely, shifting from foot to foot, drawing attention away from Fleur so that Fleur can fix her collar and not make it quite so obvious what they’ve been up to.

McGonagall’s hair is in a long braid, falling down the back of her neck, and she appears to be in casual clothing. It is a strange sight, and Hermione knows she has (foolishly) completely lost track of the time. “Miss Granger, it is past curfew,” McGonagall tuts. Her hands are on her hips and her square spectacles are glinting in the half-light of her wand. “You of all people should know that being out after hours is against school rules. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

It has been a long time since Hermione has lost points for her house. She’ll have to work extra hard tomorrow to earn them back.

McGonagall rounds on Fleur, her expression annoyed, but there is no real anger in her eyes. Hermione supposes that the wizarding community might have different views towards homosexuality than the muggle world. “And you, Miss Delacour, I have no doubt that Madam Maxine informed you of Hogwarts school rules before coming here.”

Fleur looks sheepish. “Désolé, Madame.”

“I should hope so.” McGonagall extinguishes her wand and makes shooing motions. Hermione bends to pick up her bag. She hands Fleur her bag as well, their fingers brushing and Fleur’s head inclining towards the library. Tomorrow then, at the usual time and place. “To bed, both of you.”

~

Ron gets one look at their exam timetable and bemoans the fact that their History of Magic exam is the same day as the Third Task. Hermione realizes that she’s not going to be able to concentrate or study; she’ll be so worried about Harry – about Fleur – about all of them really. She’s seen the maze growing down on the Quidditch Pitch and she knows that Hagrid is going to put all manner of unmentionable things within the hedges, once they grow to their full height.

She resolves to study, telling Fleur about this as she color codes her notes in chronological order, cross-referencing them by relevance and likelihood of essay questions. She’s glad her parents still send her off to Hogwarts with muggle school supplies, because she would have used up all her limited supply of colored ink a long time ago.

Fleur is particularly fascinated by the neon-colored flags that Hermione's mother sent along with her response to her daughter's most recent letter home. She pulls a bright orange one off of the stack and contemplates it for a moment. “I do not understand ‘ou eenglish muggles,” Fleur says, carefully sticking the flag back into its place.

Hermione smiles at her. “They find wizards – and the French – to be quite confusing as well.”

That earns her a roll of Fleur’s eyes and a pout.

They haven’t had as much time together as Hermione would like. She’s been helping Harry get ready for the Third Task as much as possible, and Fleur has been disappearing off into the depths of the library with stacks of thick tomes to look through as part of her own preparation.

Fleur hasn’t asked her, and she hasn’t said anything about how Barty Crouch has disappeared and how Harry was one of the last to see him. There’s an air of unspoken questions between them, and Hermione can’t bring herself to say anything to Fleur. There’s something bigger going on here, and they don’t know what it is. She’s afraid that Fleur will find it as distracting as Harry does.

She pushes a list across the table at Fleur, who looks at it questioningly for a moment, before picking it up. “Quiz me on the major themes?” Hermione asks.

Setting down her quill, Fleur nods. She flips the page over and begins somewhere in the middle. Her voice is quiet, calming, and Hermione is able to answer many of the questions without consulting her notes. The ones that she cannot, or the ones her points are not concise enough on, Fleur corrects gently.

Hermione will not admit how much she is going to miss Fleur Delacour when she’s gone.

Later, when her hands are tangled in Fleur’s hair and her hips are rocking against the steady assault of Fleur’s fingers, Hermione realizes that she could be falling in love with Fleur Delacour.

~

The first time Hermione says 'I love you' to Fleur is when she's being carried up to the hospital wing after the Third Task. They're all shaken and rattled and horrified about what just happened. Fleur's bloody parents are standing right next to Hermione and she says it anyway. Fleur squeezes her hand and they let Madam Pomfrey take her behind a curtain.

Cedric Diggory is dead.

Hermione cannot stop repeating the thought in her head. She’s terrified that it could have been Harry, that it could have been Fleur. She can’t believe that the Ministry – that Dumbledore could actually let something like this happen. There’s no way. He couldn’t have known, but the betrayal of her one safe haven is everywhere around her. She’s shaking and she can’t stop and she blurts it out to Fleur as they help her up to the hospital wing to have the burns on her back and arms looked at.

Fleur’s parents are either too distracted or don’t speak enough English to react to what she’s saying. Gabrielle is trailing behind them all, her eyes full of tears, and Hermione recalls that upon her words, it is the first time she’s seen the little girl smile all day.

Thank goodness for small victories.

Madam Pomfrey helps Fleur onto one of the beds and gestures for them to all go and sit on another, at the far end of the room. She pulls the curtain shut and Hermione’s last glimpse of Fleur is those pained blue eyes searching for her own.

Gabrielle is crying.

Hermione wants to go to her and hold her and tell her that Madam Pomfrey is the best in the world at what she does and that her sister will be good as new in the morning. She doesn’t move. She cannot. Fleur’s _parents_ are right there, staring at her curiously.

“’oo is she, Gabrielle?” Fleur’s father asks and Hermione’s cheeks burn. She can’t look at them, and instead focuses her attention on Madam Pomfrey’s shadow moving behind the curtain over Fleur’s bed.

She knows she looks strange, her tear stained dirty face and overly frizzy hair from the beginnings of the heat of the summer a stark contrast to Fleur’s perfectly put-together family. Hermione has never felt so self-conscious in her life. She wraps her arms around herself and tries to stop shaking.

“Elle est une amie de Fleur,” Gabrielle says hurriedly, her voice betraying the tears that are still in her eyes. “Elle s’appelle ‘ermione.”

“Une amie? Fleur n’a pas dit…” Fleur’s father trails off, his eyes burning holes in the back of Hermione’s thin sweater.

She turns, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. “Hello,” she says. She wants to try speaking the few French phrases that Fleur has managed to teach her, but she doesn’t trust her voice right now. She’s so full of fear for so many things.

“Bonjour.” Fleur’s mother looks just like Fleur. It’s striking. Hermione remembers reading in the paper that Fleur had told Mr. Olivander and, by extension, Rita Skeeter, that her grandmother was a Veela. It explains how Fleur’s mother looks so inhumanly beautiful, almost glowing in the dim light of the infirmary. “It is wonderful to meet a friend of Fleur.”

Her accent is still there, but nowhere near as thick as Fleur's or Gabrielle’s. Hermione remembers Fleur saying that her mother was a liaison at the French Ministry of Magic, which explains how her English is so much better than her children's.

Hermione forces a smile across her face. “Likewise.” She holds out her hand, “My name is Hermione Granger, I’m a fourth year student here.”

Fleur’s father reaches out to grasp Hermione’s hand and the door to the infirmary is once again pushed open and Dumbledore sweeps into the room, Snape and McGonagall in tow, along with Harry and Ron – both of whom look as bewildered as Hermione feels.

Madam Pomfrey appears from behind the screen and gives them an apologetic look before launching into a tirade about Harry constantly getting injured and how it’s a crime against humanity how accident prone he is. Hermione wants to laugh, but she can’t bring herself to do so. Nothing seems very funny anymore.

Cedric Diggory is dead.

Harry survived the attack and came back saying Voldemort has returned.

Everything is going to change now.

 

~

 

The first time Fleur kisses Hermione in public is also the first time she says I love you back. She's about to leave, to head back to France and to take her exams and belatedly take her Apparition test (her eighteenth birthday was right before the Third Task and Hermione remembers it fondly).

The end of term feast had been a somber affair. Hermione had sat with Ron and Harry and had watched as they raised their glasses as one in Cedric’s name. It was all so surreal. When Bill and Mr. Weasley had said that they would be having an exciting year, they had not meant this.

Fleur finds her after the feast is over and they’re all heading back to their dormitories to finish packing before the send-off ceremony later that afternoon. Hermione is lingering, talking to Luna Lovegood and Ginny in the entrance hall about some strange new creature that Luna has probably made up on the spot just to annoy them both. She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to see Fleur’s face peering at her from underneath that ridiculous Beauxbatons hat.

“Do you ‘ave a minute?” Fleur asks as Ginny gapes at Hermione and Luna seems completely preoccupied with something just off to Fleur’s left.

Hermione nods. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you on the train, Gin?”

Ginny nods mutely at her, and pulls Luna way from them, back up the stairs and towards the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor dormitories. Hermione watches them go, waiting until they are fully out of earshot before she turns to Fleur.

“What is it?” she asks. Fleur usually does not seek her out like this, save for that one time when Hermione had not shown up in the library and Fleur had gotten _concerned_. Hermione was still annoyed by that, to some extent, but the aftermath had been well-worth the annoyance.

Fleur presses a piece of paper into her hand, and wraps her arms around Hermione’s shorter shoulders in a tight embrace. “I am going to miss you,” Fleur mutters in Hermione’s ear.

She can feel the eyes of the school watching her, and she decides that she does not care. She wraps her arms around Fleur and holds on as though Fleur is her only anchor to solid ground. She’s made her feelings clear to Fleur, despite her parents being there and the subsequent awkwardness that had caused.

Fleur smells of sunlight and of the sea – scents that one does not usually smell in the north of Scotland – and Hermione inhales deeply. “I’ll write every day,” she promises, her voice thick with tears she did not realize she was holding back. She does not want Fleur to leave. She does not know if she’ll ever see Fleur again. She does not want this… whatever it is between them… to end. “I’ll give you my information so you can write me back.”

They pull apart, Fleur’s hands resting on Hermione’s shoulders. “’ermione, tu es mon amour. Please do not zink zat zis… finira – will end.” Fleur leans down, brushing her lips against Hermione’s. Her mouth is open, shocked at Fleur’s boldness. She supposes that the school would have found out eventually, and she’d rather not have them doubt her resolve or her sexuality. Harry and Ron already know, and they don’t care, which is all that truly matters to Hermione.

“I love you,” Fleur says, pulling away after holding the kiss for a moment. “Je suis… I am sorry zat it took me so long to say zis.”

Hermione laughs and throws her arms around Fleur’s neck. “I love you too, Fleur.”

 

~

 

Over the summer, Fleur writes Hermione. The letters are long, languid like the record heat of the summer and full of sinful words and descriptions of what Fleur longed to be able to do to Hermione's body. Fleur’s grasp on the written form of the English language is fantastic, and the way that she weaves her words together makes Hermione moan into her pillow late at night. She feels foolish, curled around her pillow and a shirt that Fleur had loaned her after Hermione’s got ruined in one of their misadventures, reading the letters by the light of her bedside table.

Her parents tell her to go to bed, knocking gently on the door to Hermione’s bedroom at one or two in the morning as Hermione has yet to turn off her light. She can’t. She can’t turn away from Fleur’s words. They’re driving her wild, making her long to see Fleur again.

Her parents don’t think much of it when she tells them that she wants to go to France. They tell her that they can’t afford such a trip right now, and that’s that. She can’t visit Fleur, even if she goes by wizarding means. She doesn’t pout, or feel sad, because that afternoon Fleur writes her telling her that she’s going to be coming to London in two weeks for a meeting and a job interview.

 _I did not do this for you,_ Fleur’s letter says, _but rather for myself and for Cedric. You are the added bonus and incentive for me to get this job._

Hermione tells her that that is fantastic and she’ll look forward to seeing her.

She’s just sent Fleur’s owl off when an owl arrives from the Weasleys inviting her to spend some time with them for the next few weeks. Ron is vague on the details in his letter but he calls Hermione from a payphone at the local drug store a few hours later and explains that they’re not actually going to be at the Burrow, but at a different location that needs some serious help cleaning up and stuff and if she could please come as he needs the moral support as his mother is a right terror.

Hermione agrees to go, and resolves to simply tell Mrs. Weasley that she has to floo to London to see Fleur when the time is right. Mrs. Weasley of all people should be alright with her wanting to see Fleur. After all, Hermione being gay meant that she was not trying to sleep with Harry, or Viktor, or (certainly not) Ronald, and proved that everything Rita Skeeter had written about her in the newspapers had been falsehoods.

It sort of slips out that she is seeing someone over dinner one night before Mr. Weasley and Bill come to fetch her. She tells her parents that she can’t help who she loves and her mother hugs her close. “We always knew,” she says quietly, and Hermione is flabbergasted. She’s only just become really sure of it herself – how could her parents have known?

When she asks her father says that she had simply never been interested in boys as anything other than friends and that Harry and Ron are clearly her heterosexual life partners (in crime and all other unmentionable things). Hermione sticks her tongue out at her father and he proceeds to ask her a lot of very awkward questions about Fleur.

Hermione is bright red and stumbling over her words when the smiling face of Bill Weasley appears at the door and she practically throws herself at him to escape. He laughs when she tells him to get her out of there and helps her father carry her trunk down from her bedroom. They set it down in the living room and he tells Hermione that he’ll be right back for her as he vanishes with her trunk.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Hermione’s father says quietly and Hermione nods her agreement.

“It’s rather alarming, but I can’t wait to learn how to do it,” she says. She got her pillow under one arm and her book bag slung over her shoulder. Her father has given her far too many books to read (as usual) and she’s resolved to at least attempt a few of them before the summer’s out. “I’ve read all about it, but it sounds like the sort of thing you have to just _do_ to learn, you know – like driving.”

Hermione’s father nods his agreement and Bill and Mr. Weasley return, the latter offering up some pumpkin bread that his wife had baked that morning. Hermione’s mother takes it and Bill extends his arm. “Shall we?” he asks, and Hermione nods.

“I’ll call you,” she says to her parents. “Or write if that’s easier, not entirely sure where we’re going.”

“Alright,” they said, and Hermione feels a tug much akin to a Portkey pulling her by the base of her stomach towards a destination far away.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, is a truly ghastly piece of architecture somewhere either in London or very close to it. There’s a Tube Station just down the road and a convenience store that Hermione has already taken Ron to at least twice to sample muggle chocolate. Sirius Black is there, and Remus Lupin on occasion. She’s even seen the real Mad-Eye Moody and Professor Snape once or twice. She’s met more Aurors than she can count in the past few days, one of whom is Sirius’ cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. She’s an odd sort of person, but Hermione takes an instant liking to her sense of humor and easy smile. It makes it easier to know that to some of the occupants of the house at least, the world is not filled with doom and gloom. Still, it is very surreal, honestly, staying there, at the center of the resistance against Voldemort.

Bill tells her that back in the day, during Voldemort’s first rise to power, the Order of the Phoenix had been the organization or record fighting against the Death Eaters. Hermione has read about them in books and thinks them fascinating, but finds the close-lippedness of the rest of the household with regards to the subject infuriating. Even Tonks seems to want to keep her mouth shut about things, which is odd because she will happily talk about anything under the sun with Hermione and Ginny. Mrs. Weasley says that they are far too young to be hearing about such things and Hermione points out to her than in less than a month and a half she’ll be sixteen and that she is certainly mature enough to know at least _some_ of what’s going on, thank you.

That doesn’t go over too well and Hermione spends the day hiding on the fourth floor with Buckbeak.

Hermione wants to write to Harry with all the details of what they’re doing, but Dumbledore makes them promise to not tell him where they are or what they’re doing. Ron protests and Hermione tries to see the logic in it and can’t, but they both know that Dumbledore must have a plan or else he would not have asked.

Still, she hates the silence, hates lying to Harry. She helps Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Sirius clean out bedrooms as a lot of people are staying in the house, and she plays chess with Ron in the evenings. He’s getting so good now that she hardly sees the point any more – he can beat her in under five minutes and yet cannot apply this dedication and forethought to his schoolwork at all. She wants to shake him to sort out his priorities.

Ginny still goes to bed relatively early, and Hermione lights a candle and reads Fleur’s letters late into the night. They are still full of the same sinful words that have been driving her to release since the beginning of summer, but Fleur has also become more closed-off about certain things that Hermione asks in her responses. Fleur won’t tell her where the job interview is, but says that she’s going to be staying with some friends for a few days in London after the interview. Hermione is annoyed at how vague she’s being, and tells her so in her response.

Fleur tells her to wait and see.

Hermione can’t really say that she is all that surprised when Fleur turns up at the next Order of the Phoenix meeting. She’s watching from the second floor landing with Fred and George, while Ron has gone off to get something from his room, when the door opens. First Snape comes in, looking dark and menacing and generally unpleasant; they all back up so that he can’t see them. Hermione knows that he has when he shoots a dirty black-eyed glare in their general direction before slamming the door to the kitchen behind him.

“Git,” Fred mutters.

Dumbledore comes in a few moments later, with someone following close on his heels. Hermione peers forward, hoping it isn’t Mad-Eye Moody (she doesn’t think the footsteps sounds like his _unique_ gait though), and sees a flash of pale blonde hair. Her face erupts into a smile and she’s halfway down the stairs before George grabs her and tells her that she can’t go down there – that Mrs. Weasley’ll tear her head off and he doesn’t want to be responsible for her untimely demise.

Hermione does not care, and she twists out of his grasp and continues down the stairs and into Fleur’s arms. Dumbledore seems mildly taken aback, but nods to them both after a moment and sweeps his way into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. “Come along when you’re ready, Ms. Delacour,” he says. His eyes are twinkling like nothing Hermione has ever seen before and there’s a wide smile on his face.

Fleur grins down at Hermione who is grinning right back at her.

“I can see why you were so vague,” Hermione says quietly.

Fleur laughs at that, and kisses Hermione on the forehead. “’ou were not all zat forzcoming in ‘our letters eizer, ‘ermione.”

She can’t deny that, but she can’t deny much of anything when Fleur spins her around and presses her up against the wall. There’s something in the air now, full of pent-up longing and frustration, and when Fleur’s lips crash down harshly on her own, Hermione cannot help but feel as though she’s finally come home.

  
 **Fin**


	2. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the surface, things are not always what they seem. After an idyllic summer, Hermione finds herself dawn back to Hogwarts and away from everything she's come to hold dear. As Hermione heads into her fifth year, she leaves behind a love that only grows with distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a good but of underage sexual content over the course of the story. Hermione is fifteen during Goblet of Fire and Fleur is seventeen, while they age up over the course of it, I feel it is necessary to warn the readership who might find such sexual situations triggering. There is also a good bit of discussion of various forms of prejudice, but it is merely mentioned, and certainly not glorified at all.

  
_“Nobody knows what the future holds_  
And it’s bad enough just getting old.  
Live my life in self-defense  
You know I love the past cuz I hate suspense.”  
\- Diane Young 

_“You better shape up;_  
you better understand  
to my heart I must be true.”  
\- You’re the One that I Want 

~

Their summer is hot, full of sweat and sleepless nights. Fleur casts cooling charms on her room and Hermione goes in there to sleep when it gets too unbearably hot in the room she shares with Ginny. Mrs. Weasley has forbidden them from doing that, and Ginny covers for her as best she can and as Hermione slips under the covers and into Fleur’s arms, she does not feel guilty.

Fleur kisses her and Hermione pushes Fleur onto her back, reveling at how cool Fleur’s skin feels under her sweaty palms. Their lips are pressed together and Fleur’s tongue is doing that _thing_ that it does to make Hermione’s toes curl as Fleur pulls her tank-top up and over her head. They break away briefly and Fleur throws the shirt onto the dusty floor (no matter of cleaning charms can get all the dust out of the floor, Fleur has tried several times) beside the bed. 

As Fleur’s lips push back down against Hermione’s, Fleur flips their positions and Hermione tries to protest. She likes being in control, likes watching Fleur become undone, but Fleur is hearing none of it tonight. Her hands are everywhere as she moves, kissing her way down Hermione’s neck, lingering just long enough to make Hermione gasp, but not enough to mark her.

Hermione has found that she rather likes the marks – in her own twisted way of throwing what she and Fleur share back in the faces of those who doubt her commitment to it. Mrs. Weasley has been rather vocal about the fact that she is _far_ too young to be in such a relationship and Sirius has pulled her aside several times to ask her if she’s doing alright. Hermione cannot stand it and has made her opinion clear to anyone who questions her: she is in love with Fleur Delacour, and Fleur is in love with her.

Warm fingers close around her breast and she gasps, Fleur smiling above her. “Like zat?” Fleur asks quietly and Hermione nods. The air in the room is so much cooler than it has been in Grimmauld Place all day, and Hermione is uncomfortably warm despite the coolness of the air. Fleur’s fingers are hot against her skin, and warm as she feels, there’s goose bumps appearing on the skin her tank top had covered. 

Fleur’s touch burns as she runs her fingers carefully down Hermione’s stomach. She lingers in places that Hermione has helped her to find, places that Hermione did not even know she possessed. The warmth of Fleur’s touch and the almost sinful way that Fleur is watching her, eyes dark and full of passion, is almost too much for Hermione and she moans. Fleur’s eyes always get to her when they’re doing this, they become so dark they seem almost black and are stark in contrast to Fleur’s pale skin and hair. Hermione has wondered if this has something to do with Fleur’s heritage, but has never had the courage to really ask. 

Dark eyes dip downwards, hidden by a mane of silvery blonde hair as Fleur bends to kiss her breast. Her lips are hotter than her fingertips and Hermione squirms under the touch. Fleur’s body holds her still and Hermione flops back on the pillow, her fingers burying themselves in Fleur’s hair, twisting and pulling as Fleur sucks her nipple into her mouth. The sensation is almost too much, and Hermione can feel the wetness pool between her legs as Fleur’s tongue dances across the sensitive skin in her mouth. She groans when Fleur moves her hand downwards, dipping down into her knickers and pulling them off as quickly as possible.

They fall to the floor with the quiet sound of garments hitting wood, and Fleur lifts her head and Hermione can see that her eyes are darker still. There’s an almost avian quality to her now, in this act of passion, and Fleur studies Hermione’s face carefully as she pushes her fingers up and into Hermione’s embarrassingly wet core. Hermione gasps, her hands reaching out, grabbing for Fleur’s shoulders, pulling her down and into a kiss. She doesn’t want to be too loud, and Fleur’s tongue is ravaging her mouth, silencing her moans and gasps before they can be released.

Fleur rocks against her, Hermione’s hips pushing back against every push of her fingers. She loves this feeling, it is so rough and so raw and so _them_. Full of the passion that neither of them dare speak of for fear that the allure of it might vanish into nothingness. Hermione is so full of Fleur, so content and the way that Fleur’s palm is rubbing against her is threatening to send her over the edge far too soon.

Their kiss breaks apart and Hermione’s nails rake along Fleur’s back as she moves closer towards ecstasy. Fleur’s lips have returned to her neck, biting and nipping at the skin there. Hermione shifts, her body trying to take in more of Fleur’s lips, her fingers, her entire body craves Fleur’s touch and she’s unashamed of it. 

“Zis is what ‘ou like,” Fleur breathes into Hermione’s ear. She’s panting too, her eyes gleaming in the dim light from the half-drawn curtains. “’ou like it when I take ‘ou.”

Hermione groans loudly, verbal response is beyond her at this point. Fleur’s pace quickens and there’s something almost feral about the way that she moves, pushing Hermione closer and closer to the edge. Hermione can’t think straight, can’t concentrate on anything but the way that Fleur is watching her, coaxing the orgasm out of her. There’s a fire in her eyes, heavy lidded and waiting on the edge of Fleur’s consciousness, ready to strike.

Fleur’s thumb flicks across overly sensitive skin and Hermione comes hard, moaning loudly as Fleur brushes sweaty curls off of her forehead. “Je t’aime, ‘ermione,” Fleur whispers quietly, slowly withdrawing her hand and contemplating her fingers for a moment. Hermione is suddenly horribly embarrassed that Fleur’s fingers are covered in her essence, but as Fleur begins to lick them clean, Hermione falls back on the pillows, panting.

“I love you too, Fleur.”

A few moments later, when Hermione is finally able to think straight once again, the question tumbles unbidden from her mouth. “Why do your eyes get so dark?” She wants to take it back almost instantly, as Fleur looks up, her eyes normal once again.

“Mn?” Fleur asks, moving to curl around Hermione, her arm flung casually over Hermione’s stomach. 

Hermione swallows hotly, her cheeks flushing as she rephrases. God, there is no way to put this without it sounding horrible. She gives it her best shot, and says again, “When you’re um… aroused, why do your eyes get dark?”

Fleur laughs then, bright and airy, like wind in the trees or a bird’s chatter. Hermione frowns, hating that she’s constantly drawing comparisons between Fleur and birds now. It’s like a scab that won’t go away, she can’t get the image of the veela that she saw at the Quidditch World Cup out of her mind with their beaks and wings and claws. 

She hopes Fleur doesn’t get claws.

Or wings.

“Because my grandmere is a veela,” Fleur leans in and kisses Hermione on the cheek. Her skin smells of sweat and Hermione turns her head to catch Fleur’s lips, lingering there for a moment before Fleur pulls away and adds, “It is simply part of who I am.”

Hermione’s brow furrows, “I imagine that there are differences between a partial veela and a full one?”

Fleur nods, “Oui, but now is not ze time for talking about zem. Je veux dormir.”

Hermione nods and that is the end of that conversation, she’s too spent to protest much. She’s ask Fleur again in the morning. Yes, the morning is a good time to ask such a question.

In the morning, Professor Snape corners Hermione and Fleur in the entrance hallway of Grimmauld Place as Hermione is seeing Fleur off to work and says that he wants a word with both of them. He ushers them into a sitting room that they have yet to fully decontaminate and tells them to sit. Hermione is slightly terrified as she sits next to Fleur on a moth-eaten sofa that creeks ominously under their weight. 

“It has been brought to my attention that you two are engaging in certain,” Snape pauses, as if for dramatic effect. Hermione glares at him as discretely as possible, she doesn’t want to borrow trouble to add to her humiliation. “ _nightly_ activities that I shall refrain from mentioning here as they are – by nature - _unmentionable._ ”

Fleur folds her arms across her chest and scowls at Snape who looks down his crooked nose at her with a look of upmost contempt on his face. “What of it?” she asks flippantly.

Hermione is almost proud of Fleur, except that she’s terrified about how Snape is going to use this to embarrass her in class come the fall. 

“As it kept me up for half the night I would advise that you learn a good silencing charm, Ms. Delacour.” Snape’s snide smile solidifies the mortification that is now permanently etched in Hermione’s mind. Snape heard them. Oh _God_. 

Hermione thinks she’s going to be sick.

“And you, Ms. Granger, I should think that you should keep your mouth occupied with other things during such endeavors. You are rather loud.”

Fleur’s arm is around Hermione and there’s that same fierceness in her eyes that Hermione sees when they make love. Angry and ruffled and oh god she’s got to stop drawing comparisons between Fleur and birds; it’s just _wrong_. “You will apologize to ‘ermione,” she says angrily, staring Snape down with as much contempt as he’s showing them. 

Snape gives a mock bow, looking even more like an overgrown bat, and shrugs elaborately. “Discretion is key in all things, Ms. Delacour. Learn this and you might live through the coming war.”

Fleur’s shouted curses in French and English wake Sirius’ mother and Snape sweeps from the room to deal with her.

Hermione is shaking and Fleur’s words mean nothing to her. She’s hurt and humiliated and she just wants to leave to get away from this god-awful house and that god-awful man. “I want to die,” she mutters into the crook of Fleur’s neck.

“Come to work wiz me,” Fleur says, taking Hermione’s hand and pulling her to her feet. “Vas-y.”

Fleur is doing paperwork that day and Hermione spends the afternoon curled up with a cup of tea and her new Arithmancy text book, carefully staying out of sight of the goblins as she hides out in Fleur’s office.

~

And then Harry comes. He is angry, Hermione can see it, she can hear it in his voice and in the temper tantrum that he throws over their Dumbledore imposed silence. There is so much to-do about fetching him from his relatives that Hermione is positive that Voldemort’s forces were going to attack them right on the way to Grimmauld Place. Fleur whispers that it is just Mad-Eye posturing to Hermione after they’d all left to go and fetch him and Mrs. Weasley had glared at the pair of them until they’d left the room to go and watch Ron utterly destroy George at Wizard’s Chess.

Fleur asks to play a round with him after that and once Ron stops blushing (Hermione is rather proud of him for getting better about being tongue-tied around Fleur) they have a go, but Fleur’s not much better than George and loses in short order as well.

“’ou are a razer good ‘ow do you say…” Fleur trails off, searching for the right word, “stratège – erm – strategist.”

Ron blushes bright red and mumbles his thanks but there is worry in his eyes.

Harry was attacked by dementors two days ago. He’s going to be expelled from Hogwarts.

“What if they really do kick him out?” Ron whispers, not looking at anyone else in the room. His voice is shaking and Hermione wants to go to him, to hug him and tell him that everything is going to be alright. She takes a step forward, but Fleur’s voice stops her.

“We will teach ‘im zen,” She has a resolute look on her face. “Sirius, Remus, William, myself – anyone who can teach ‘im will. Zat is what Dumbledore wants.”

Hermione smiles brightly at Ron and nods her agreement. She knows better than to let on to both Harry and Ron that she’s been worrying. They take their cues from her – knowing that she is the most level headed of their threesome. 

Inside she’s afraid. Can Dumbledore get Harry off? Hogwarts is the safest place for him, but Grimmauld Place is nigh impossible to find if you’re not already in on the Fidileus Charm it’s under. Harry, she reasons darkly, would be just as safe here as he would be at Hogwarts.

When Harry arrives he flies into a rage unlike any that Hermione has ever seen before, yelling and cursing the lot of them for not telling him what was going on. She and Ron implore him, telling him that there was no way that they could have – as Dumbledore had made them swear to keep him in the dark. Harry doesn’t accept this, but when Sirius and Professor Lupin pull him aside, Hermione lets him go without a second glance. He’ll calm down, he always does.

“Reckon we might ‘a deserved that,” Ron mutters as they sit opposite each other in Ron’s room. Hermione is sitting on what will be Harry’s bed. Mrs. Weasley had come in earlier with fresh bed sheets and a few more cleaning charms that seemed to make the room sparkle with unnatural light. 

Hermione sighs, “I think so as well.”

When Harry finally comes back he is calmer and the three of them sit and talk long into the night. Hermione sleeps in her proper bed with Ginny as it’s nearly two in the morning before they’re ready for sleep and she does not think that Fleur, nor her seven o’clock alarm will appreciate her intrusion. She sleeps poorly though, tossing and turning and plagued by dreams of birds and Voldemort and vicious creatures singing her down into the sea.

Over the next few weeks, Hermione learns more than she ever cared to know about magical pests, nasty jinxes placed on sofas, and dark objects disguised as tea kettles. She cannot imagine what it must have been like for Sirius, growing up in this awful house, and tells him so two days after Harry’s trial. They’re all still in a celebratory mood, Dumbledore had gotten Harry off despite the Ministry’s full Wizengamot hearing and Harry’s scar hurting in the middle of it. 

Sirius pours himself some tea and sighs dramatically. “My mom was one of the most awful people you will ever meet.”

They all laugh, having met Mrs. Black’s portrait and Fleur quietly asks, “Worse zen Rita Skeeter?” They’ve all been slighted by her, but Hermione, ever proud of herself, has fixed that for at least a year. 

Fleur is contemplating a spoon and muttering ‘café’ under her breath. She pulls out her wand and taps the spoon experimentally, Hermione watching with interest as it grows and changes under her spell. Soon it resembles an old-fashioned coffee steeper and Hermione grins. Fleur likes tea just fine, but is far more of a coffee person in the morning and when they’re all still bleary-eyed and just waking up. 

Harry eyes her sideways and Hermione giggles behind her cup of tea. 

Mrs. Weasley gets up and tells Fleur she’ll find the coffee.

“I should hope so. At least all that woman did was print lies than anyone with common sense -” Sirius trails off, eyeing Mrs. Weasley out of the corner of his eye and Hermione remembers the very small egg she’d received at Easter after Rita Skeeter had published that ghastly article in _Witch Weekly_. There’s a flush on Ron’s mother’s cheeks that rivals her hair color and Sirius coughs to hide his sudden pause. “Anyone with any common sense would realize that Harry isn’t five years old, and that he’s perfectly capable.”

Harry chews on some toast. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

Sirius gives him a mock bow and they all laugh.

There are times when Hermione thinks that Sirius’ presence is very bad for Harry. That Sirius is too playful and not mindful enough of the facts of Harry’s existence. Voldemort is after him, after Sirius too, probably – and yet it is all fun and games with Sirius Black. She’s pondered this with Ron, who thinks that it might be because of Harry’s dad, and with Fleur, who thinks that Sirius is trying to make up for lost time. 

This isn’t one of those times, though. Harry is truly happy, smiling and chattering away, really coming out of his shell like he hasn’t in a long time. 

Hermione is happy that Harry has found himself a father figure.

~

Mrs. Weasley does not say anything when Hermione follows Fleur into her bedroom the night before they go back to Hogwarts. She merely shakes her head and tells Hermione to be sure to set an alarm. Hermione does so as soon as she goes into the room, programing her watch to commence its shrill beeping with more than enough time to get them both up and ready for the horrible day that awaits them.

She sits on the edge of Fleur’s bed, picking at the bed spread, trying not to think of all the memories that she will have in this room. 

“Did you-” Fleur begins, but Hermione shakes her head. She doesn’t want to, not tonight. She wants to lay awake with Fleur and just _talk_ , like they did before. If that talking leads somewhere, that’s fine, she reasons, but she does not want to go into this expecting sex. Hermione is pretty sure that that will ruin the moment.

“Tell me about Beauxbatons,” Hermione says, taking Fleur’s hand and pulling her down onto the bed beside her. She’s always been curious. The students who had come to Hogwarts last year did not really talk about their schools other than to compare them to the less-than-pleasant aspects of Hogwarts. 

Fleur leans in and kisses Hermione gently, her tongue pushing forward and her hands playing into Hermione’s hair. They stay like that for a moment, their lips dancing together, to their own rhythm. 

“What do you want to know?” Fleur asks, pulling away. Hermione’s fingers are tracing patters along Fleur’s side, pulling at the thin t-shirt and touching the skin beneath it with hesitant fingers. They did not ever really do much of this, not until this summer when they had the time to lay about in bed. 

Hermione shifts, kissing Fleur on the nose. “How do they tell you you’ve been accepted?”

“Zey send a letter, but ‘ou ‘ave to interview first,” Fleur shakes her head slightly, settling herself down more comfortably next to Hermione. “C’est horrible.”

“At eleven?” Hermione laughs, “I can imagine.” She wonders how muggleborn children are introduced to the school then, or if their interview is simply waived. It would seem prudent to treat all students the same, but Hogwarts has a different procedure for muggleborn students than they do for halfbloods and purebloods. From what Harry has told her of his own experiences upon getting his Hogwarts letter, Hermione rather likes the way that Hogwarts handles the muggleborns – none of this being attacked by your mail and the like. 

Still, the idea of Fleur at age eleven is intriguing. “What were you like, when you were eleven?”

“Hum,” Fleur exhales into Hermione’s hair, “I was small. I did not grow until I was treize ans – thirteen. Zen I grew like all women in ma familie, ‘ow do you eenglish say, ‘like a weed’.”

“I was big,” Hermione says quietly. She remembers how they’d teased her; how Malfoy and the Slytherins had used the fact that she was taller and more grow mature looking than the rest of the girls in their year against her. She had hated them then, and she still does now, close-minded bigots that they are. “Taller than both Harry and Ron. It wasn’t until second year that they caught up with me. I didn’t like being the tallest.”

Fleur smiles up at her, and Hermione leans in, kissing those lips that she can never seem to resist. She loves how they feel, loves their softness and how they’re still chapped despite everything Hermione has told Fleur about staying hydrated when out in the sun and wearing lip balm if it’s sunny outside. She smiles into the kiss and Fleur pulls her down, kissing her in earnest. 

Her hands are up the old t-shirt that Fleur uses as a nightshirt, touching warm skin covered in goose bumps from coming into sudden contact with cool air. She pulls off the garment and pulls away from Fleur’s lips, her mouth burning a hot trail downwards. She kisses the skin as she exposes it, lingers in the places she knows Fleur likes. She’s left a hickey on her hip before, listening to Fleur babel at her in French, saying things that Hermione can never hope to understand. 

She’s tried to learn the language, and Fleur has tried to teach her, but every time they try, they end up doing this, Hermione kissing Fleur or Fleur kissing Hermione and then all hopes of learning _anything_ is gone and forgotten . All Hermione can remember from those lessons is how good it feels to make Fleur come, and how animalistic she sounds when she’s rocking up and against the constant and sinfully wonderful assault of Fleur’s fingers and tongue. 

Hermione lowers her head down, kissing, touching, tasting – loving every second of this moment that she will not get to have again for at least a month. She lingers, kissing the inside of Fleur’s thigh, staying there just long enough to make Fleur groan in frustration before moving back to slowly kissing Fleur to bliss. 

“Je t’aime,” Fleur is muttering, her hands tangled in Hermione’s hair. She’s repeating it over and over again, and Hermione knows what it means at least. She quickens her pace, loving how Fleur’s babbling becomes increasingly incomprehensible. She’s still learning, but she knows how to make Fleur gasp for breath and beg for release. She gives in every time, Fleur is not so kind, playing and teasing and driving Hermione wild with want.

Hermione cannot deny Fleur anything.

Fleur cries out when she comes, her words coming in breathless pants as she tells Hermione again that she loves her. Hermione lingers, cleaning up the mess she’s made, kissing Fleur’s stomach and breasts as she moves back up lover’s body. She kisses Fleur and they lie together in a tangle of sweaty limbs, panting and enjoying simply being there, together.

“I zought zat ‘ou did not want to…” Fleur gasps out after a few moments of calm.

Hermione laughs and intertwines their fingers. “I never said I didn’t.” She raises an eyebrow and Fleur laughs. 

They snuggle together, Fleur pulls the covers back up and over them both, and Hermione kisses her again. This one is slow, calm, full devotion and passion that Hermione still cannot find the words to truly express. She loves Fleur with all her heart, expressing it with small gestures and pleasant smiles and kisses that she knew would make Fleur’s toes curl. 

“Nous devrions dormir,” Fleur whispers, pulling away from the kiss. “Tomorrow is going to be terrible, but ‘ou must be rested for ze journey.”

Hermione sighs and nods her head. She knows that Fleur’s right. Tomorrow is going to be awful, but that she as to get some sleep or else she’s going to be a right git in the morning. She leans over and checks her watch one last time, to make sure that the alarm is on. Satisfied, she curls up and whispers that she loves Fleur before drifting off to sleep.

“Je t’aime, ‘ermione,” Fleur whispers back. “Toujours.”

The next morning is full of half-eaten breakfasts and cold showers as Grimmauld Place’s hot water heater is on the fritz. Hermione is in a bad mood before they even start to head towards the train station. Fleur tags along with them, to see Hermione off – she’ll follow Bill Weasley to work afterwards. 

Hermione likes that they’ve become close. Fleur needs a friend who is decidedly not interested in her, and Bill seems to be completely and totally in love with his job. It’s good, it means that Fleur can get the rare gift of interacting with a man who doesn’t want to have sex with her.

Fleur had thought she might be jealous, but Hermione had shaken her head and pointed out that William had a very nice girlfriend. She doesn't mention that this one seems far more serious than his other romantic entanglements (according to Ginny), Fleur can find that out on her own.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters is crowded with students, and Hermione feels the wonderment of everything once again. Her parents have come to the station to see her off and she runs over to them with a bright smile and hugs for everyone. She’s going to go on holiday with them this year at Christmas, she promises. There’s talk of skiing and Hermione is truly happy. 

Her mother tells her to write and Hermione promises that she always does. They laugh for a few minutes before the whistle blows and Hermione has to hurry back over to the Weasleys to help Ron and George move her trunk. 

“’ermione,” Fleur says quietly, taking Hermione’s hand and pulling her away from the Weasleys. “I will miss ‘ou.” She says it so fiercely and with such protectiveness that Hermione throws her arms around Fleur’s neck and kisses her in the middle of the train platform, not caring who sees. 

“I love you,” Hermione promises, “I’ll miss you too.” She kisses Fleur one last time, “I’ll write you every day.”

“Bon,” Fleur smiles back at her, tears in her eyes. “I will see you in ‘ogsmeade.”

Hermione nods and hurries her way back onto the train. She’s a prefect, there’s a meeting she as to go to. She puts her things in the compartment with Neville and Harry, half dragging Ron away. He still hates the idea of being a prefect, despite everything that Hermione says it will teach him about proper responsibility and duty. 

Their meeting is short and they’re back in their compartment as the train lurches to life. The school train leaves and Hermione watches Fleur vanish into nothing behind a cloud of smoke. She fights back tears and sits down next to Ginny with a scowl on her face. Ron tells her that her face will get stuck like that if she doesn’t stop looking so down. She tells him to sod off.

Harry leans back and watches them, and Hermione watches him. It’s hard to watch him, to know that he watched Cedric Diggory die and that he saw Voldemort come back. She feels terrible for him, to have those strange dreams, to be so _alone_ in all this. 

“So have you figured out how you’re going to see Fleur?” Ginny asks. Hermione hasn’t really talked to her about her relationship with Fleur, there hasn’t been the time over the summer. Things have been happening so quickly with Harry’s trial and then the going back to school process that always takes longer than Hermione intends for it to take. She feels guilty; they’ve all been so busy that the long talks that she’s used to having late into the night with Ginny during their summers have fallen by the wayside.

Luna looks up from _The Quibbler_ and raises an eyebrow at Hermione. She’s an odd one, Hermione won’t say any more than that, but a good person and incredibly smart. “I didn’t realize you were a homosexual, Hermione.”

Cringing, Hermione glances to Ron, who has his hands over his mouth and looks to be trying to stifle a laugh. Harry is grinning. She groans. 

“I’m…” Hermione wonders how Luna missed the fact that Fleur Delacour kissed her in front of most of the school at the end of term last year. The conversation had spread like wildfire through the train and by the time they’d gotten back to London there had been so many questions from her peers that she’s shocked Luna even asked. “Well yes, I am.”

Luna’s attention is back on her magazine. “That’s lovely; I just wanted to hear it from you.” Her tone is dreamy and off kilter, and Hermione does not know what to think of it. She shoots Ron and Harry a look that they should very well know means ‘we will discuss this later’ and picks up her book once again. 

Later, when she’s back in the Gryffindor dormitory and unpacking her trunk, does the full gravity of the situation really begin to weigh down on her. She’s alone. Fleur won’t be showing up here like she did over the summer. There will be precisely six chances for seeing her outside of school breaks – on Hogsmeade weekends – and suddenly Hermione is not sure she will be able to cope with the distance. She’s put on a brave face for Harry, for Ron, even for Ginny – but Fleur was the one who held her last night as she shook and tried to maintain her composure. 

Fleur promised that it would not be so bad and Hermione wants to believe her. She tries to concentrate on something else, opening her trunk and beginning to unpack her things. She’s about halfway through when she realizes just how many things of Fleur’s have found their way into her trunk. She’s unpacking and finds a stray scrap of parchment covered in Fleur’s handwriting – and then a shirt that Hermione had thought she’d given back. There’s a few books that Hermione actually had permission to borrow and several others that she did not. 

She sits on the end of her bed, Fleur’s shirt in her hands, and tries not to cry. She’s never done this before. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

She hates feeling so completely alone.

~

Delores Umbridge is a bitch. Hermione cannot stand her, the way she teaches, even the way she bloody moves. Harry’s got detention with her for a week already. Hermione tells him to just hold his tongue. He can’t, he never could.

“I can’t believe you,” are the only words that come to mind when Hermione finally finds herself a moment alone with Harry. She’s been busy all afternoon, getting a start on her classwork and reading up on the new Educational Decree that enabled the Ministry of Magic to appoint Delores Umbridge to a professorship in the first place. 

The library is different without the usual silent study partners that she’d grown used to last year. She resolves to write to Viktor as soon as she has a minute. Her first letter home to Fleur is tucked into her Ancient Runes textbook; she’s going to ask Ron if she can borrow Pig to send it when she sees him next. He’s got an early prefect patrol with one of the Ravenclaws. Hermione’s own assignment is with Pansy Parkinson and she’s positively _thrilled_ about it. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Harry demands angrily. He’s flipping through their Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, frowning at the theory that Hermione thinks is rubbish and muttering to himself, “At least when we had a bloody Death Eater teaching the class, we _learned_ something.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Harry, you can’t just run your mouth at her. She was obviously put here for a reason -”

Harry’s eyes narrow and he scowls, “Yeah, Hermione, what reason would that be?”

“Dumbledore,” Hermione explains in a hushed voice. They’re standing in a corridor on the fifth floor, well out of the way of any professors, but she does not know if the portrait of some old nuns (who are currently gossiping behind their hands) might tell anyone else of their conversation. She doesn’t know how far Umbridge’s control goes. “Fudge thinks that Dumbledore is after his job, he’s sent her here to make sure that he’s not - I dunno – building an army of school children or something.”

Harry runs a hand through his messy hair and Hermione frowns, it’s bandaged and obviously still bleeding some. She doesn’t mention it, as Harry seems to be trying to not draw attention to it. “The man is barking,” Harry agrees. 

They turn to leave, the nuns waving behind their hands at Harry as Hermione shoots them a dirty look. They’re _nuns_ for God’s sake. As they’re walking down the corridor, Harry says something that sets the gears in Hermione’s mind turning. 

“Maybe we should teach ourselves.”

They go back to the common room, and Hermione asks Ron if she can use Pig. Ron raises his eyebrows from behind his copy of _Quidditch Weekly_ , but grunts his consent and Hermione leaves once again.

The owlery is off of one of the main wings of the castle, just outside and up a slight hill. Hermione is grateful for her prefects badge as she passes Filtch on her way there. He shoots her a dirty look and she turns her nose up at him as she passes. She understands why he’s so miserable working in a school full of magical children when he himself does not have the ability, but his attitude could really use some improvement.  
Hermione finds Pig and he nuzzles her fingers affectionately as she hurriedly adds a post script to her letter to Fleur.

_P.S. – Harry said something to me today that got me thinking – that if Professor Umbridge turns out to be as horrible a teacher as we anticipate her to be, that we should teach ourselves defense. Do you think that this would be possible?_

_H_

She stays in the owlery until Pig has become nothing more than a tiny speck on the horizon, thinking. Harry will probably never agree to actually teaching, even if he is the one who originally came up with the idea. She will have to work on him, make sure that he’s willing to do it. The plan will take time to form, and she’ll have to ask Fred and George what textbook they used in defense last year. There are so many variables, her fingers itch to start making a list.

She is three minutes late to her first patrol with Pansy Parkinson and the girl is waiting at the base of the staircase as she heads down it, her face twisted into a frown.

“Sorry,” Hermione says quietly, knowing that her best defense against a Slytherin is to be as inoffensive as possible, “I went to the owelry.”

Pansy Parkinson sniffs moodily and shrugs, “I don’t give a damn what you were doing – you’re late, Granger.”

Hermione sighs. “I know, it won’t happen again.”

Hermione Granger is a lot of things, but never late.

Their patrol is fairly inconsequential. They catch some Hufflepuff second years attempting to put firecrackers in Filtch’s supply cupboard and a young couple snogging behind a suit of armor. Points are taken on both occasions and it is only then that Hermione starts to relax a little. Pansy Parkinson is not going to jinx her on patrol it seems. Her wand is clenched in between her fingers in the pocket of her robes despite this, she knows better than to trust a Slytherin.

“Why wasn’t Potter made a prefect?” 

The question is sudden and Hermione is taken aback by it. She stops in the middle of a third floor corridor and stares at her companion. The girl is looking at Hermione curiously, but Hermione can see the malice there, just barely hidden below the venire of polite inquiry. 

“No idea,” Hermione gives an elaborate shrug. 

Pansy Parkinson considers this for a moment before she also shrugs, “He is always in trouble. We all thought that because he’s Dumbledore’s favorite…”

Hermione laughs then. She’s just playing along, but she knows that she has to watch what she says carefully. “Dumbledore would vastly prefer it if Harry stayed out of trouble. Gryffindor House as well.”

They share a smile, Harry Potter is notorious for losing Gryffindor points. “Shame about Umbridge,” Parkinson laments, “I would have loved to see her take points instead of stick Potter in detention.”

“I would rather he just hold his tongue,” Hermione shakes her head. She doesn’t know if she can say any more, so she doesn’t mention that she’s terribly worried about how they’re all going to pass their Defense OWL if the professor refuses to actually let them learn the practical portion of the subject. 

They fall into silence for a while, helping a lost and confused Slytherin first year back to his common room before Pansy speaks once again: “So, did you slip Delacour a love potion or does she go for social degenerates and nerds?”

It is all Hermione can do to not lash out at her then. Her fist is clenched tightly around her wand, five or six curses in mind that could never be traced back to her. She’s grateful that Pansy did not call her a mudblood, but the word is still just barely hinted at behind Pansy’s more polite way of mocking her blood status. 

“For your information, _she_ came on to me,” Hermione hisses. Her watch beeps then and she stalks off, their patrol finished.

She has two days of freedom before she’s suck with Pansy Parkinson again. She has half a mind to march up to Professor McGonagall and demand a different patrol partner. 

Ron looks at her apologetically as she slams the Fat Lady’s portrait closed behind her and flops down on the couch beside him.

“What did she say?” he asks.

“She asked me if I used a love potion on Fleur – as if _I_ would have to stoop to such levels when she’s obviously been slipping them to Draco Malfoy since second year!”

They laugh then, happy to be together once again and Hermione feels a bit better.

~

Fleur does not respond to her letter for several days, but Hermione is not too worried. She has other things to worry about, Harry has another week of detention from Umbridge and he isn’t interested in teaching anyone defense. Hermione is trying to convince him that it’s a good idea but he tells her that they’ll only get into more trouble and his hand will never, ever heal.

Neville suggests that murtlap might help and Hermione checks up on it before agreeing with him that it should be a good solution since Harry does not want to go to the hospital wing with his nagging and bleeding hand. They get him to soak his hand in a bowl of essence of murtlap and Hermione tries again to talk to him about teaching defense.

“I won’t do it,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t want to borrow any more trouble.”

Hermione is secretly proud of him for wanting to stay out of trouble, but does not voice this opinion out loud. She knows what she wants and she’ll stop at nothing to get it. Harry is their best option. He’s the only one in this entire school who has actually had any combat experience, and he’s fairly good at teaching when he sets his mind to it. She has no intention of doing anything less than outstanding on her defense O.W.L.

“Harry, listen to me, you know how to do this stuff, none of the rest of us do. You know what it’s like to fight a real person!” They’re glaring at each other, Ron looking warily from one of them to the other and back again. Hermione is grateful that Ginny has gone up to her dormitory now, as she does not think that she’d like the idea of them fighting like this. 

Harry scoffs, “Yeah, running scared from Voldemort and getting Cedric killed, I’m a real champion of justice.”

Hermione lets it drop. She knows that Harry will do what she wants eventually; it is just a matter of asking and bothering him about it for as long as she can stand it. She’s set a goal for the first Hogsmeade visit, as Umbridge has threatened to disband all student organizations. They can’t meet for the first time on campus, it just isn’t safe.

“Don’t be that way,” she says quietly, motioning for him to pull his hand out of the essence of murtlap so that she can check on it.

She’s positive that Umbridge is using a dark object to do this to Harry, but he won’t talk about it. She’s seen similar marks on Fred and George’s hands, but they’re as close-lipped as Harry is – if with far more murderous intent in their eyes. 

Harry glares at her as she wipes away the minty smelling fluid and sees that the wounds are finally starting to scab up. “Give it another ten minutes,” she says, “And then wash it off before putting the bandage on.”

She gathers her things and shares a long look with Ron. He’s totally for her idea as well, but has had no less luck persuading Harry to teach them. They’re working him from all angles, Hermione has half a mind to get Ginny involved as well. 

He’ll cave, he always does.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says with a smile, and heads up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories.

The next morning she’s greeted with a letter back from Fleur and a strong slap on the back from Ron. “Happy birthday!” he says brightly to her as Hermione scowls at him, rubbing her shoulder where he hit her. She wishes he wasn’t fifteen years old and full of nervous energy and the strength of an ox. Her shoulder hurts now.

She realizes that yes, today is her birthday, sweet sixteen and all that. It’s maddening, to know that she hadn’t even thought about it. This is one of the more important birthdays that a girl can have, and she’s gone and forgotten.

Hermione realizes that she never told Fleur when her birthday was, and feels suddenly guilty. She remembers the quiet kisses and peaceful evening that she and Fleur spent down by the lake for Fleur’s (well, muggle, but Hermione considers turning eighteen far more important that seventeen) coming of age birthday the previous June. It all seems so long ago now, she muses, setting Fleur’s letter aside to read later as there’s two more owls that are making a beeline for her, as well as the usual owl with the _Daily Prophet_.

Her parents have sent along a birthday card and several photographs from their time together over the summer. There’s a small wrapped package and a note from her mother that the contents were an old family heirloom that she had also received on her sixteenth birthday from her mother. Hermione tears open the package to see the pearl necklace that her mother always wore carefully nestled amid tissue paper and she wants to cry.

Her dad has included a book as well, a slim volume about The French Resistance in World War Two and she can’t help but grin. Her father had been most intrigued to hear the revelations of what Hermione had learned about that war the previous year, and Hermione supposes that this is to further supplement her learning.

She has no idea when she’ll have time to read it.

The other package is fairly small, around the size for a book wrapped tightly in brown paper. Hermione tears into it as there is no note and finds herself holding a book about veela customs and culture. She frowns, and flips open the inside cover, looking for an inscription. There is one, in maddeningly perfect handwriting: 

__

In case you had any questions. Happy birthday. – F

Hermione grins up at Harry and Ron’s curious faces. “It’s from Fleur,” she says simply and realization dawns on their faces and they both smile as well.

Perhaps this birthday isn’t going to be so bad after all.

She reads Fleur’s response to her letter under the scrutiny of half the Gryffindor table over breakfast. Hermione hates that she can’t get away from them, but she can’t wait. She has to read the letter now, she has to know what Fleur has to say.

_Hermione –_

_With each passing day I miss you more than I care to say. Spending the summer with you has spoiled me, made me long for you nightly and set me against myself when I try to sleep alone. I fear that this separation may be more than I can bare, but your words say that you too have felt this pang of loneliness that has no cure.  
I long to see you._

_I can only count the days and will time to go faster until I can have you once again for the briefest of moments, but it will be well worth it. I have plans for this meeting, Hermione. It is your birthday and you deserve nothing but the best._

_I know that you are probably curious about all that I have left unsaid with regards to my heritage. I sent a gift along with the hope that it might answer some of your questions. I would love to talk to you about them when we are reunited._

A line in French follows the end of the English paragraph, and then Fleur has signed her name. Hermione wonders what Fleur could have meant by ‘plans’ and decides to write her back and ask.

“Hermione you’re blushing,” Ginny says as Hermione carefully folds the letter back up and tucks it into the book from Fleur. They’re all grinning at her over their pumpkin juice and tea. 

“Shut it,” Hermione mutters and goes back to her breakfast, her cheeks burning bright red.

~

On their First Hogsmeade weekend, they form a Defense Association that Hermione jokingly calls ‘Dumbledore’s Army.’ Hermione has to get Harry started, but as soon as they gather together in the Hog’s Head, she knows that this might be a bit bigger than they’d initially planned. There are a lot of people crammed into this very small room. The barkeep is scowling at them, as not many of them are old enough to buy anything from behind his bar – but Fred and George get pints of whatever is on tap and sit down to Hermione’s right and the barkeep seems to relax.

“Erm – hi.” She begins, feeling stupid and antsy.

There’s at least twenty sets of eyes on her and soon she gives it up to Harry, who is scowling and looking rather murderous. Umbridge has just banned him from Quidditch and that is probably what finally made him to agree to do this in the first place. 

Harry actually holds the audience better than Hermione does and tells them a little bit about what he plans to teach them. He says that he’s not going to try and follow the book that Fred and George used last year, but rather just teach him the spells he knows that are good defensively as well as work together with them as they all learn new spells together. They discuss potential meeting places, what they would do if Umbridge bans all school groups that aren’t sanctioned (this one certainly is not going to be) and how to best keep in touch with each other about this. 

A few of them are prefects, which works to their advantage, and they agree to pass the information along through code for now, and Hermione makes a list. She likes lists, they make her life simple and orderly. She likes order. As those gathered one by one sign their names, her mind is racing – trying to figure out how to hold them to their word. She thinks for a moment, and then charms it with one of the nastiest curses she’s read about in the past few weeks. “If any of you tell,” she whispers as they stare from the list they’ve all signed to the wand in her hand and back again, “We’ll know, and you’ll be very, very sorry.”

They leave the Hog’s Head in twos and threes – a good tactic that Hermione is pretty sure will work for wherever they decide to set up shop for these lessons. Harry and Ron smile at Hermione before saying that they need to go to Zonko’s for some things. “Meet you back at the castle?” Ron says, raising his eyebrows in a brazenly suggestive way. 

Hermione blushes a little bit and waves them off. “Hopefully I’ll be back for dinner.” There’s a curfew and she has to be, but she doesn’t want to think about it.

Following a feeling, Hermione heads to the Three Broomsticks, watching carefully for the telltale signs of Fleur’s presence. There’s a hint of her smell in the air, and Hermione sees Madam Rosmerta gesturing for her to come over. She approaches the bar, elbowing older students out of her way as she presses her way closer to where the bar’s proprietor is cleaning a glass and grinning brightly at Hermione.

“You’re needed upstairs, love,” is all the bar mistress says and Hermione knows. “End of the hall.”

Anxiety fuels her every motion, she fiddles with her hair, it’s frizzing from being in the Hog’s Head and then back out into the heat of the day. She wishes it would calm down, but knows that it won’t. She adjusts her collar on her shirt and tries not to think about the fact that she’s wearing faded and old corduroys that had fit her better before the year had begun. She grew again, she knows it. 

Still, they’re amazingly comfortable.

Logic tells her that she’s going to stop eventually, but she’s sick of shooting up like she’s some sort of teenage _boy_ and gaining centimeters far faster than Harry is growing. Ron is a freak of nature and has grown at least six inches in the past two years. He complains that he hurts all over, and Hermione can relate to that sensation lately. She hates that she’s growing, but is grateful that the school skirts are purposefully cut long and her – ah – top half seems to be pretty settled into its size.

Hermione has never been to the upstairs of the Three Broomsticks. It looks a bit like the Leaky Cauldron, only a little less shabby and more art deco. Hermione decides that Madam Rosmerta has fantastic taste as she moves down the hall. She’s nervous – she’s wet – she’s worried Fleur won’t want her any more.

She’s deluding herself, Hermione thinks darkly, raising her hand and knocking on the door at the end of the hall with some trepidation. 

Fleur answers the door wearing a leather jacket over a v-neck shirt and muggle jeans so tight that Hermione flushes, looking her lover up and down for a long moment before finally meeting curious and dark blue eyes. 

“Hi,” she says awkwardly for the second time that day. 

A wide grin spreads across Fleur’s face, but there’s something unreadable in her eyes. It is deeper and more passionate and when Fleur grabs her and pulls her into the room, Hermione realizes that it is desire. She’s so bad at picking up on these signs, she knows that Fleur thinks that it’s adorable, but she hates it. 

Hermione definitely does not hate it when Fleur pushes the door closed behind her and shoves her against the wall just off to the side of said door and puts her hands everywhere – reminding Hermione (perhaps far too starkly) what she has missed since she has been back at school.

She gasps as Fleur growls into her neck, kissing Hermione on the spot that they both know Hermione loves. 

“Do ‘ou – ‘ave _any_ idea ‘ow much I ‘ave missed ‘ou?” Fleur demands, pulling herself away from Hermione’s neck long enough to meet her eyes once again. They stare at each other for a long and drawn out moment. Hermione’s chest rises and falls and her fingers toy with the ends of Fleur’s hair, falling loosely around her shoulders. 

She opens her mouth to reply, but Fleur’s lips are on her own and she finds herself unable to think of anything other than how Fleur is going to take her right here, against the wall with the door still unlocked next to them.

The idea arouses Hermione more than she cares to admit, and she wraps her arms around Fleur, hips pushing wantonly upwards against the knee that Fleur’s shoved in between her legs. Fleur seems to like this, and her facial features go all avian for a moment and in that moment, she is more beautiful than Hermione has ever seen her before. 

When it is over, Hermione pulls Fleur back towards the bed that’s the main centerpiece of the room. She’s pulling off Fleur’s clothes, forcing those sinfully tight jeans off of Fleur’s legs and marveling at the pale skin that she’s exposing. It’s been too long, she doesn’t know how she’s going to handle this separation between them. 

“Why the leather jacket?” Hermione asks, raising a curious eyebrow as Fleur kicks off her jeans and settles down on the bed next to her. There’s a sense of equality here now, they’re both naked, but Hermione secretly wants Fleur to put the jacket back on and fuck her with just it on. She’s not going to say anything, but if Fleur offers, she certainly would not say no.

She suddenly feels like she’s Sandy in _Grease_ and she’s just seen Danny Zuko at school for the first time after their summer together. Fleur would make a fantastic Danny Zuko, her post-coital brain reasons – she’s totally hot enough in a leather jacket to pull off the Travolta role. 

Hermione has no idea why she’s thinking about American musicals that her parents forced her to watch as a child. She loves every minute of those films, even if she protests that she has _better_ things to do with her time than watch moves with her parents. 

Still, no idea why she’s thinking about that particular movie at this particular moment. She’s pretty sure she’s not even attracted to men – even if they do look like John Travolta looked in that role.

“’ou can blame William for zat,” Fleur laughs, jerking Hermione out of her completely – and disturbingly – random thoughts. “’e seemed to zink zat ‘ou would enjoy it.” 

Hermione traces her fingers down Fleur’s side, forcing thoughts of _Grease_ out of her head and concentrating on how Fleur is watching her, and how she still desperately craves Fleur’s touch. “I do,” she confesses, a sheepish smile crossing her face. “You look rather dashing.”

“Merci,” Fleur kisses her and suddenly it starts again. Fleur shifting to move on top of her, their bodies pressed together as one. 

It is slower this time, far less frantic than it had been before. There’s a tenderness here that Hermione recognizes and loves. It drives away all thoughts of Umbridge, their new defense club, and the fact that she’s a bloody prefect and is willingly breaking Hogwarts rules without much thought for the consequences. Hermione reasons she must risk expulsion at least once a year for Harry’s sake. It comes with the territory of being one of his best friends.

Fleur’s hands slip down to her breasts – nipples hardening under teasing nails and gentle touches that turn harder as Hermione groans. Fleur has always known how to elicit the best responses out of her, despite the fact that Hermione desperately tries to not sound so completely undone during their _encounters_.

Hermione has long accepted that she’s not very dignified when they make love. She tires her best, but Fleur knows how to move her lips and fingers and tongue to make Hermione come completely and utterly undone. Hermione is lying when she says that she does not revel in the loss of control – in the feeling of being so completely stated that she can’t even remember her own name. 

Fleur Delacour is amazing in bed, and the smug smile that graces her lover’s face as Hermione moans and grabs at Fleur’s back, nails raking against the pale skin she’s so carefully exposed. 

“Aimes-tu cela?” Fleur asks, lips dipping down to join her fingers. “’ow I touch ‘ou?”

“Yesss…” Hermione grinds out. Fleur is biting, sucking, drawing her closer and closer, her hand brushes against Hermione’s navel, further down, She bucks against the touch, her whole body’s attention focused laser sharp – on how Fleur’s fingers are carefully caressing and exploring. They’re driving her wild with every dip towards what will inevitably bring Hermione to climax, but every time they drift inwards, they hastily scoot back and away. They tease Hermione and she groans in frustration and longing.

Fleur stares at her, eyes wide and full of the passion that Hermione can barely put into words. Her eyes are even blacker than before, and she’s panting in that elegant way that Fleur Delacour pants when Hermione is on the brink of orgasm. 

Hermione wants to come. She wants to feel Fleur inside of her, rocking against her. She knows that this isn’t fair, that Fleur has made her scream and come once already today and that their time is lamentably limited, but she does not care.

She’s being selfish when she urges Fleur to linger, to push her fingers upwards and inwards, taking her suddenly and harshly. Two fingers and Hermione is so full. She groans and Fleur hisses, predatory and dominant as she forces her back down onto the bed.

Fleur’s fingers fill her and she feels herself clenching around them. She doesn’t know the muscles in the human body, but the way that Fleur has forced her down and is attempting to take her is so incredibly arousing. Hermione cannot help herself, not after nearly a month of only her hand to satisfy her. 

She’s becoming more and more undone; Hermione realizes this, as Fleur sucks hard on her neck. She can’t resist much longer, she’s going to fall claim to Fleur’s aggressive love making. There’s a smugness in Fleur’s eyes that Hermione recognizes. She wants to feel everything and Fleur’s pushing her further than ever. 

Fleur adds another finger and Hermione gasps, babbling incoherently. Her entire body is wrapped around Fleur, who is taking her as a man would, pushing in and out of her – in and out and oh so deep and bloody fantastic. 

“Oh God,” The words escape Hermione’s lips and she struggles to say much more than that – she can’t think – she can barely breathe. Fleur is taking her so thoroughly that Hermione feels the dominance and the power that Fleur is so eager to place upon her, and she accepts it hands down. Her body full of the ache to come, to have her sacrifice be recognized by the family as they revel in her claiming together. 

Fleur growls and Hermione’s hips buck back and upwards, forcing Fleur to adjust her position to continue hitting _that spot >_ that drives her so damn wild. Hermione feels so good – so damn good – and when Fleur finally puts her over the edge Hermione shrieks in pleasure and satisfied knowledge that Fleur can make her come whenever she wants.

~

The marks of their encounter fade over the next week, but Hermione cannot stop thinking about the conversation that came after Fleur had finished her for the second time. Her mind is swirling with the thoughts of veela love, and how it differs from human love. She understands sensuality and creatures of a certain, well, type – but Fleur is different.

Fleur had draped her leather jacket over Hermione’s shoulders and had explained everything that she knew about what it meant to be part veela. She had then proceeded to answer Hermione’s questions and make bird jokes for the rest of their evening together.

Hermione had been decidedly _not_ amused by said jokes. 

Veela love is very different, Fleur had made this point very clear to Hermione. It is not like being in love with a human, it is more physical than that, and the bond is far stronger. Hermione had asked if she had ever even stood a chance against such love, and Fleur had told her that the physical attraction always came first for the veela, and the emotions were quick to follow.

“I cannot ‘elp zat I love you,” Fleur had explained. “It consumes me, fills me with a desire I cannot put into words.”

Hermione, naturally curious, had asked her to try. Fleur had simply kissed her and asked how she felt about dating someone who could not love as a human did.

Even now, Hermione thought it was bloody awesome and had informed Fleur of that fact. 

They had parted on a good note and Hermione had gone back to school with a happy grin on her face and a rather large hickey on her neck (according to Ginny, it really wasn’t all that big).

The following morning they awoke to find a new Educational Decree nailed to the doors of the Great Hall officially banning all student groups and clubs. Hermione curses under her breath and grabs some toast and tea before setting off to the library. She has got to think of a place where they can practice without Umbridge finding out and a way to communicate meeting times.

She jams her hands into her pockets as Professor Umbridge walks by her and smiles politely at the woman, her hands clenching into fists around the coins she’s put there to pay the _Daily Prophet _owl every morning. When Umbridge passes, Hermione relaxes and adjusts her bag, peering to look at the galleon and knut she’s still got in her hand.__

__“That’s it,” she breathes, and doubles her pace to the library._ _

__The charm is next to impossible, but after using a simple duplication charm, she manages to at least get the bases for their ‘galleons’ made. The goblins that run Gringotts have so many protections and guards against such actions with wizarding currency that Hermione knows she’s making the most fake-looking galleons ever._ _

__That isn’t the point though, and she knows it. They just have to pass muster enough to fool a cursory glance from Filtch or Umbridge or any other professor. Closer inspection and the members of their club can just say it’s a good luck charm or something._ _

__Hermione doesn’t sleep for two days, but she gets the charm right and collapses into her bed after presenting Harry with the box of charmed and spectacularly fake-looking galleons._ _

__“You need to get more rest,” Lavender comments as Hermione begins to doze off. It’s just after dinner and she’s completely caught up on her schoolwork and has nothing to do. It feels amazing._ _

__Hermione waves her hand dismissively, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”_ _

__Harry comes back from speaking to Dobby a few days later and has the most amazing idea – using a room no one knows about (until they find it) to house their club. Hermione has read _Hogwarts: A History_ more times than she cares to admit and she’s never head of this ‘coming and going room’. She finds reference to a ‘room of requirement’ which could be the same thing, but it isn’t until they get there that Hermione realizes just how truly brilliant it is._ _

__The room is long and narrow, the sort that one would use for dueling – with padded mats on one end and plush cushions on the other, stacked up in case they should need them. There’s a veritable library along one wall, full of books on defensive magic and information on the dark arts. Hermione could live forever here._ _

__“Wicked,” Ron breathes and Hermione nudges Harry. They all share a smile and begin to prepare for the others to arrive._ _

__While it isn’t much, Hermione is really grateful that Harry is doing this. She knows that she will be alright for her O.W.L., at least she hopes that she will be. She’s written Fleur about this, and Fleur tells her that she’s going to be fine, but she’s still so worried. She’s got to start revising soon, but Harry’s lessons are actually teaching her things that are not being taught in class._ _

__She likes this rule breaking thing, but she will never, ever admit it to anyone._ _

____

~

Their second Hogsmeade weekend is full of romance and tender kisses hidden behind lamp posts. Hermione is in heaven. She misses Fleur desperately when she is not there, but this is perfect.

Fleur is waiting for her at the gate and she waves goodbye to Harry and Luna and they go into the village together. There isn’t really much that they haven’t seen in town, but the brilliant foliage of the late October day leads them to a spot on the hillside near the Shrieking Shack. Hermione recounts the tale of how she first met Sirius Black to Fleur, who listens intently as they bask in what will probably be one of their last chances to truly enjoy being out of doors until springtime. 

Fleur spreads her cloak out on the ground and they lie back, resting on their elbows. Hermione is warm under her sweater and Fleur’s intense gaze and as they kiss, she feels safe and content. Suddenly, there is no fear of what the future might hold, about how she’s suggested breaking so many rules to Harry in such a short period of time. She can’t even force herself to worry about her defense OWL and how she’s possibly going to be prepared with the way that Umbridge is teaching the class.

There is just Fleur, just this moment, just this tender kiss and Fleur’s hand cupping her cheek. And it is perfect.

They pull apart slightly at the sounds of footsteps coming up the path. This way is usually left alone by the students, who go up High Street if they want to see the Shrieking Shack. Only couples who want to spend some time alone even know that this hillside exists. It is set back and idyllic and the view is truly spectacular.

“Hem Hem,” Hermione freezes and Fleur’s eyes widen at the tremor of fear that flickers across Hermione’s face. Well, there is one thing that could ruin her perfect day, and naturally, she’s chaperoning the Hogsmeade weekend.

Naturally.

“’oo is zat?” Fleur whispers into Hermione’s ear. They’re still pressed together, Hermione looking up at the sky, Fleur holding her close, her nose buried in Hermione’s hair. Hermione does not like the idea of being caught with Fleur by any professor. Snape and McGonagall know already and that’s two too many professors for her taste. 

Her peers know, and sometimes the mocking comments from the Slytherin table at mealtimes can be unpleasant, but they do not seem to care nearly as much as Hermione thinks that they should. Fleur explains that those in the wizarding world do not think it all that strange, and Hermione tells her that it is truly bizarre to hear of something so progressive coming out of a place so backwards. Fleur just smiles and shakes her head and Hermione tells her about SPEW and Fleur seems very amused by the whole thing. 

But Umbridge finding out?

She’s going to lose her prefect’s badge.

She doesn’t much care.

“Professor Umbridge,” Hermione says quietly, glancing down the path and seeing the awful woman continue to slowly make her way up the path towards her. She does not want that evil toad of a woman to hear her Hermione say her name. It’s almost like an admission of guilt. 

“She does not seem so terrible,” Fleur says, eyeing the woman through the curtain of Hermione’s hair. 

Hermione gives Fleur a look, very aware of the footsteps that are crunching their way ever closer up the hill. “She’s ghastly.”

Fleur’s hands tangle in her hair and Hermione can almost see the impending doom settle in around her. Fleur is going to kiss her, right here, right now. Fleur Delacour has nerves of steel. 

“HEM HEM,” Fleur’s hands pull away from Hermione and they both sit up very suddenly. Umbridge is standing right in front of them, the toes of her disgustingly pink (Hermione would say peptol bismal-colored, but Fleur does not know much about muggle over the counter drugs) shoes just at the edge of the careful boundary of Fleur’s cloak. 

Hermione raises her hand, shielding her eyes from the evil woman (as well as the sun). “Yes, professor?” she asks, her voice innocent. She sits up, leaning on her elbows. “Is there something that you needed?”

Umbridge eyes her from behind her all-too-proper attire and toad-like eyes. Hermione can see her mind working, she can see the disbelief blossoming across her face at the fact that Hermione, who has never given her any trouble, is very clearly enjoying a romantic afternoon with another woman. She seems to prepare herself, inhaling deeply, before asking, “Miss Granger, you are a prefect this year are you not?”

Hermione nods, her prefect badge is pinned to her jacket despite the fact that she is off-duty this weekend. “Yes ma’am I am.”

“Then why are you setting a bad example for the students by … engaging in such unnatural activities?”

She can’t think of anything to say. She opens and closes her mouth several times before starting, “I…”

“Zat is none of ‘our concern, Madame.” Fleur retorts, her arm protectively around Hermione’s shoulder. There is a fierceness in Fleur’s eyes that Hermione has seen a few times before, always when Fleur is defending her against the evils of their day to day life. Now, when faced down by true evil, Hermione is overjoyed to see Fleur’s protectiveness flare to even greater heights.

She’s read how veela protect their mates, but Fleur is not fully veela, Hermione does not understand how that translates with Fleur’s diluted blood. They don’t really ever talk about it, she gets the sense that Fleur doesn’t much like it.

Umbridge’s toad like face curls up into a wicked smile, “Oh, but you will see that it is.”

Hermione will not be surprised if there is an educational decree banning homosexual relationships – or relationships in general - between students before the day is out.

~

Just before Christmas Mr. Weasley is attacked. Hermione has promised her parents that she’ll be going home for a few days, but this changes a lot of things. It isn’t safe to be unprotected anymore, not when she is so close to Harry. She’s going to go home and have a nice dinner with them, and then Fleur is going to pick her up and take her to Grimmauld Place.

Hermione finishes penning the letter containing the most recent incarnation of her plans to her parents and turns to stare off into space for a moment before noticing that Lavender is staring at her with that same look that Hermione herself sometimes gets when she’s around Fleur. She doesn’t think anything of it, and tucks the letter into her bag to mail before dinner and not when she’s on her way to the final afternoon of classes. 

“Everything alright, Lav?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and adjusting the collar on her shirt. It’s only their lunch break, and she’s just stolen a few moments away from the general chaos of the Great Hall to the library to write this letter. She hadn’t been expecting to run into Lavender Brown here, but she honestly isn’t surprised. The girl was studious but not the most, she did care about her grades on top of her looks.

“It’s okay,” Lavender responds. She fiddles with a lock of her curly hair for a moment before adding, in a hushed tone. “I saw that Ron left already for the hols, is he alright?”

Hermione doesn’t know what she can say, so she resolves that bending the truth a little is alright. She swallows, and begins to speak. “His father’s at St. Mungo’s, said something about work and things went bad and he’s laid up now.” It’s close enough to the truth that Lavender shouldn’t question it. 

She doesn’t and Hermione wishes her a Happy Christmas a few moments later and heads off to Charms with a smile on her face. Lavender Brown is a good and sensible girl, Hermione has always liked her when she’s not off giggling with Parvati and her sister about some cute boy. 

Hermione doesn’t understand the appeal of that. She’s not above looking, she doesn’t think Fleur would mind, but she doesn’t get men. She loves Harry, and she loves Ron, but as friends, never anything more. She’s just another one of the guys for them, and she probably will always be. She’s not particularly femme (and yes, she has read up on the terminology), and she can’t imagine anything more satisfying than seeing Fleur in a pretty dress.

God, she’s such a lesbian.

She sends her letter and sits through dinner next to a sullen-faced Harry. She can tell that he misses Ron, and that Umbridge gave him a hard time when she asked him to stay after in Defense today. Hermione had to go to another prefects patrol with Pansy-bloody-Parkinson and so she couldn’t wait for him. 

Pansy had been in a shockingly good mood, however. She’d asked Hermione about her holiday plans after outlining her own (going to a ball at Draco Malfoy’s home on New Year’s and a family dinner with her extended family at her grandmother’s for the Solstice). Hermione hadn’t known what to say, so she’d said that she was going home, and that Fleur was coming to stay for a few days. Not exactly the truth, but close enough.

“They’re alright with that?” Pansy had asked as they’d moved through the mostly deserted school halls.

Hermione had shrugged. She honestly didn’t know. “They seem alright with the idea of my dating, at least.”

Pansy’s expression had been carefully neutral. “Muggles don’t really like that sort of thing, do they?”

“My parents don’t seem to mind.” Hermione had said simply, her voice hard and abrupt. She knows that Pansy will probably pass this information on to parties that Hermione does not want hear it, but she can’t help herself. “Muggles aren’t really that progressive about such relationships, no.”

Pansy had shrugged, “Love is love, Granger, you’d think they wouldn’t care.”

Hermione knows she’s right and that this is one of the few things that she and Pansy Parkinson will ever agree upon. She doesn’t want to think about the cold feeling of dread that fills her when she thinks about having dinner with her parents and Fleur. The plans have been in motion for several days now, and she’s sure that it’ll be fine, that Fleur will be her usual charming self and that they’ll be able to keep the sexual tension to a minimum. 

Fleur is going to meet her parents.

Hermione swallows hotly and tries to not think about it too much. 

Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt come to pick up Harry the following morning and they whisk him away while Hermione is standing at Hogsmeade station next to Luna Lovegood who is chattering away about something that they’ve done in their last DA meeting and how she’s fairly certain that Harry kissed Cho Chang after everyone left. 

Hermione thinks that that particular tidbit is mildly interesting, but doesn’t say anything until Luna asks her why it is that Harry is still going after a girl that is clearly not emotionally available for him. 

“No idea, Luna,” Hermione says honestly and then the train whistles and Hermione can see a tall blonde figure cutting through a crowd of Slytherins by the train car entrance. Hermione guesses that she’s not going to be taking the train home after all and raises her hand to wave enthusiastically at Fleur. She can see Pansy Parkinson amongst the Slytherins that Fleur just pushed by and Hermione knows her smile is smug and satisfied. 

She gets Fleur Delacour and they can only watch.

And yes, she is incredibly petty, she knows this.

“Hi,” She says quietly to Fleur as her lover draws level with them and stops just short of giving Hermione a hug. 

“Salut,” Fleur responds in kind and Hermione drinks in the sight of her, eager to reach out, touch her, have her once again. 

Fleur’s coat is belted tightly against the late December cold and she’s got a woolen cap that looks to be of a Molly Weasley vintage pulled down tightly over her ears. A scarf that looks both tasteful and speaks to Fleur’s upbringing is wrapped around her neck and her gloves, when she reaches out to pull Hermione to her, are fingerless. She is the most beautiful person that Hermione has ever seen.

“I take it I’m not riding the train?” Hermione asks as she’s pressed against Fleur and Luna is watching them with a far-off expression on her face. 

Fleur laughs, light and airy – like birdsong. “Non, chèrie, I am taking ‘ou ‘ome à moi.” 

Hermione wants to ask if Fleur means Grimmauld Place, her own home or the flat somewhere in London that Fleur has described in great detail in her letters. She wants to ask a lot of things, but Fleur’s lips are pressed against her own and there’s a familiar tug at the pit of her navel, as though she’s being shoved down a very tight tube. They’re apparating, Fleur’s tongue is in her mouth and Hermione can’t help but groan as they reappear, seconds later, in the middle of her parent’s backyard. 

It’s warmer here, and there’s no snow, but Hermione still shivers under the intensity of Fleur’s gaze. There’s still several hours before her parents are expecting her (and they’re both probably still at work), and Hermione has a very good idea how she would like to spend that time. 

She leans into Fleur and kisses her again, gently and chastely, before pulling away to inform Fleur that she would have very much liked to say good-bye to Luna before being whisked away.

“You’re impossible,” She adds as Fleur grins goofily at her. They cross the yard as one and Hermione turns over flowerpots until they find the spare key to the back door and Hermione lets them into her parents’ home.

She leaves Fleur sitting at the kitchen table and crosses to the phone against the wall to ring her parents. She has to tell them to not drive to London to fetch her from King’s Cross Station as she’s already at home. They’ll appreciate that, she thinks.

“Mum?” it is odd for her mother to answer the phone. Usually it is Bonnie or James – their hygienists, who answer. Or Alice, the girl who works the phone in the mornings when they’re exceptionally busy, but rarely her parents.

“Hermione? What are you doing calling? Is everything alright?” Her mother’s voice sounds concerned, maybe a little bit panicked. Hermione makes a note to cancel their subscription to _The Daily Prophet_.  
Hermione laughs as Fleur eyes her on the phone curiously. It is strange, to be here in this very muggle home with a witch that is so decidedly magical. Hermione can’t get over it, she longs for Fleur and her magical being, given how ordinary her own origins are. “Everything is fine, mum. Fleur came and got me, so we’re here already.”

Her mother’s smile is evident in her tone, even if she sounds a little bit flustered at the idea of Fleur in her home without being there to act as a buffer between Fleur and the Many Muggle Things She Is Sure To Not Understand. Hermione really needs to get her parents in the company of wizards that are not Ronald’s father and have a slightly better understanding of muggle society. “That’s lovely dear. Can you put the roast in the oven at five? Your father and I will be home by six, we’ll eat by six thirty then.”

Hermione agrees and a few minutes of idle conversation later they’re completely alone. Fleur is standing right behind her, watching as Hermione sets the phone back into the cradle. 

“’ow long do we ‘ave?” She asks, blue eyes darkening, flashing dangerously – predatorily. 

She’s wet almost instantly and Fleur has her pressed up against the kitchen wall with no place to escape. “About four hours,” she whispers, her voice shaking. 

Fleur’s lips crash down upon her own, her tongue pushing into Hermione’s mouth. Hermione pushes back, her fingers pulling at Fleur’s jacket, pushing it off of her shoulders – taking her scarf and silly hat with it. She wants to touch, wants to feel Fleur, and everything, all these layers are in the way. 

She breaks the kiss and sheds her cloak and coat, tossing them over the back of the couch. She bends and picks up Fleur’s coat and does the same with that, her eyes never leaving Fleur’s own intensely blue ones. Hermione reaches out, her fingers brushing against Fleur’s wrist, and pulls, heading through the living room to the stairs. 

They head into her bedroom, kissing and touching. Hermione can’t stop laughing. This is all too funny. She’s never brought anyone home before. Literally none of her school friends have ever seen her bedroom, let alone her house. And here Fleur is, pretty as all can be, kissing her on her bed.

“I ‘ave somezing for ‘ou,” Fleur whispers. From her pocket she produces a small box. Hermione watches as it expands, the shrinking charm that kept it concealed in Fleur’s rather tight clothing wearing off. “Joyeaux Noel.”

Hermione grins at Fleur and unwraps the brown paper, eyes curious as she sees the logo of a shop she’s passed before in Daigon Ally and yet has never entered.

“What is that?”

“Some’zing zat I found … in a shop … jus’ off Diagon Alley.” Fleur’s smile is bright – wicked. Hermione wants it. She swallows at the sight of it, sitting in the box in Fleur’s hands, and she wants it badly. Her bed is right there and Fleur’s smile is so wicked and oh-so-enticing. It is depraved, foolish, and far too overtly sexual for Hermione’s taste. She just has to have it though, has to have it inside her. 

Fleur bites her lip, “I … Je veux… I want to try.” She’s shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes glancing from the box to Hermione’s intrigued expression and back again. 

Hermione swallows and nods her consent, aware that this will be different, more passionate (she’s not sure about that), but very, very different. 

Trembling fingers close around the straps and Fleur pulls her jeans down low enough to put it on. Hermione turns away, knowing that the preparation will ruin its effect. 

She understands, intrinsically, how this works. She’s read about it in the books her mother left in her room when she first entered puberty, but this is new, this is very different. 

Behind her, Hermione hears the sound of Fleur pulling her jeans back up, of her buttoning the fly. The anticipation is making her nervous. She turns, glancing over her shoulder, staring at Fleur, the bulge obvious in her jeans despite the fact that she’s tucked it in and closed them back up. 

This is her bedroom, where she was _a child_ and yet this is where she wants Fleur to do this. She’s nervous, frightened that she’s agreed to do this, and acutely aware of the fact that she’s still wearing nothing but her school uniform skirt and blouse. Fleur is skilled at removing both of them, and Hermione isn’t afraid to test her prowess at such a task. 

“’ermione,” Fleur breathes, and they’re kissing again. Fleur’s touch is insistent and they collapse in a heap onto Hermione’s bed, the box from the toy now secured around Fleur’s waist falling to the floor with a thump. Fleur’s tongue is in her mouth, pushing in and out, aggressive and dominant. Hermione doesn’t mind, just this once, and lets Fleur take what she desires. 

Her shirt is pulled open by hands impatient with buttons. She’ll have to fix them later, Hermione thinks as they rattle around the room, falling into crevices and hiding places that she has cultivated since she was a child. Fleur’s hands close around her breasts, uncaring and harsh, pushing her bra up and out of the way of Fleur’s hungry lips. 

She groans as Fleur’s teeth bite down on the sensitive skin there, roughly, claiming what Hermione has always told her belongs to her. Hermione’s hands tangle in Fleur’s hair, pulling and hissing, begging for more of the touch that Fleur is so liberally giving away.

Fleur’s tongue circles her nipple, her fingers pulling at the other, and Hermione sees white. Her hands slip down, pulling at the buttons on Fleur’s jeans. She’s annoyed, she can’t get them undone, can’t feel Fleur.  
The anticipation is making her wet and when Fleur takes her hands and puts them above her head with a warning look, Hermione leaves them there, watching with wide brown eyes as Fleur slowly unbuttons the fly of her jeans and pulls it out. 

It’s changed, matching Fleur’s skin tone exactly and Hermione can tell by the way that Fleur bites her lip as she touches it that it’s sensitive.

“I love magic,” she breathes as Fleur bends to kiss her again. She can feel it, hard and ready against her leg and she knows that she’s ready for it. 

Fleur’s fingers loop around her underwear and pull them down in one quick motion, throwing them off to the floor, forgotten already as Fleur buries her fingers deep within Hermione, drawing them in and out slowly, making her ready. 

Hermione can’t think, she can’t even breathe. Fleur’s fingers are deep within her and her hips are bucking against every slow thrust. She won’t be able to take this very long, and she’s pretty sure that the way that she’s moaning is a surefire giveaway of that fact. 

“Êtes-vous prêt?” Fleur whispers and Hermione nods her head. She’s had enough sex with Fleur to know what those words mean in French, even if she can’t speak the language. She’s going to have to learn, French is such a wonderful language. It fits so well for them, it is the language of love and of passion. 

Hermione can feel it as Fleur’s fingers pull away. She whimpers at the loss of them, and pushes her hips forward. She’s too far gone at this point to want anything else, but as Fleur carefully guides the device between her legs forward so that it is pressing against Hermione’s entrance, she cannot help herself. She rolls her hips, forcing Fleur to push into her, wrapping her arms around Fleur’s neck and drawing their lips back together again.

She is so full, so completely and utterly full of Fleur. She can tell that magic is making this pleasurable for Fleur, because Fleur’s breath is coming in shallow pants and Hermione pushes back against every thrust of Fleur’s. Their lips are pressed together, Fleur’s tongue matching the motions of her hips as she pushes into Hermione and Hermione almost cannot handle it.

There is something to be said for this. Hermione certainly would not want to do it every day, but it is pleasurable and exceedingly erotic. She can’t stand how Fleur is able to completely and utterly possess her in such an act but that is exactly what she feels is happening. 

Fleur’s lips close around the pulse point on her neck and Hermione begins to wonder if this is what it is like to be taken by a full veela. To drown in pleasure so freely given, and to take without question. That was what it was to be with a veela. 

She’s moaning, her voice coming unbidden to her throat, the idea that her parents could be home at any minute making it all the more erotic and desperate. Her hips jerk upwards as Fleur’s hand comes down to trace small circles around her clit and suddenly all she can feel is the constant thrust of Fleur in between her legs and the press of Fleur’s fingers against her most sensitive place, drawing, coaxing the orgasm out of her as easily as Fleur can get Hermione to smile.

 _It’s not fair_ Hermione thinks, just seconds before Fleur rolls her hips in such a way that Hermione shrieks out Fleur’s name and rides out the crest of an orgasm so intense that she can hardly stop herself from screaming. She buries her face in Fleur’s neck and bites down hard, hips continuing to move in sync with Fleur’s own as she rides out the orgasm. _How can she do this to me so easily_.

She’s tired and spent and exhausted, but Fleur’s hips continue to push into her, hard and fast. She’s like a piston, eyes wide and desperately searching for the release that Hermione can tell from her body language is oh so close. 

“Come on,” she whispers, fingers brushing over Fleur’s breasts (when did she take off her shirt?), dipping downwards, touching the harness that she can barely see but can definitely feel (an after effect of the spell?) and then pushing under it to feel how wet Fleur is. 

Fleur thrusts harder, grinding against her and Hermione realizes that she is still highly sensitive. She gasps as Fleur continues to push into her. She’s so full, Fleur is so close. Hermione twists her wrist, pinching Fleur’s clit underneath the harness and she’s shocked to feel Fleur groan into the crook of her neck and collapse in a heap of twitching muscles. 

They’re silent for a few moments, breathing heavily and staring off into space and not looking at each other. Hermione is almost embarrassed for Fleur, she’s never become this undone during sex before. She’s usually the picture of composure. 

“That was,” Hermione begins, thinking of the right word to describe the experience, “amazing.”

Fleur’s grin is cocky a she sits up and pushes off her pants to shimmy out of the harness. Hermione watches with wide eyes as its color turns back to the supple black leather it was before the spell took hold. “I am… glad - zat ‘ou enjoyed it, chèrie.”

Hermione smiles at her. “I feel like a normal muggle girl now, I’ve had a tryst in my bedroom while my parents are away.”

Fleur blinks, “Would ‘ou razer… do it while zey are ‘ere?” 

“No!” Hermione sighs. This is one of those moments that she’s been raised to understand through muggle films and books. Fleur would not understand what it’s like to hear whispers in primary school about full length American features that reportedly had nothing but sex in them – dangerous films filled with the thrill of getting caught. 

She supposes that she’s a teenager, and very much in love, so it makes sense that she’d find such things alluring. 

Dinner with her parents turns out to be far more excruciating that Hermione had initially anticipated, but she makes it through unscathed and is somewhat proud of herself for that. She's never been in this sort of a situation, not entirely. She knows what it was like the first time her parents met Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but with Fleur it's different. She doesn't know what to expect from Fleur's charming smile and feigned ignorance of the English language.

Still, it is intriguing to hear Fleur talk about the schooling that she's been doing on the side of her work at Gringotts. Hermione’s father is particularly keen on the idea of wizarding higher education and Hermione doesn't have the heart to point out to him that if the attack on Mr. Weasley is anything to go by, it's probably going to be a very long time before either of them are finished with school. 

"When I came to England, I 'ad 'oped to study before I took a position - but ze cards, zey did not ‘ow do ‘ou English say… ah, oui, _stack_ out zat way," Fleur explains to Hermione's parents. Hermione had heard this many times before, little asides in Fleur's letters over the summer. She'd not paid them much mind then, too distracted by the other things that Fleur had written on those pages. Now, though, as they were apart more than they were together, it is the little details that make Hermione curious. "C'est bon, really, zough. I am... comment dit on..." Fleur trails off, and her face takes on the appearance of deep concentration.

Hermione's eyes narrow, because she knows that Fleur is not searching for the right word at all. No, this is Fleur at her most cautious, carefully evaluating the listener as she speaks each and every word.

"Ah-" Fleur says a second later, her whole face lighting up in feigned realization. "I am building a resume, so zat I may 'ave a career après I am finished with ze mastery."

Later, as they're washing the dishes the muggle way, Hermione asks Fleur about it. "Why do you dumb yourself down for certain people?" 

Fleur stares straight ahead, out of the window over the kitchen sink. In the summer there is ivy that grows there, but in the middle of an already colder-than-average British winter there is very little to cover the window other than the half-closed window shade and the leafy trails of her mother's overzealous pathos. "It... is not zat I do not want zem to know, 'ermione. It is razer zat I do not know 'ow to win zeir approval, mmn?"

Hermione swallows, setting down her dishrag. Fleur's hands are wet, she's got her sleeves rolled up and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail that draws attention to her ears and the high cheekbones her genetics have graced her with. "I'm sorry to have to put you in this position."

"C'est..." Fleur begins, but stops, hands submerged on soapy suds up to her elbows. She turns to look at Hermione, her eyebrows rising. "I am 'aving some troubles with ze idea zat I 'ad ‘ou just upstairs. So zere is zat as well."

Her cheeks burn and Hermione looks away. Her parents... they don't know that she's done anything more than kiss Fleur. Maybe they don’t even think that she’s gotten that far, because when they were young, going steady meant you just held hands. Just thinking about the idea of them knowing makes Hermione feel anxious like she's never felt before. She's only sixteen, her mother and father are sure to say that she's far too young to be doing that sort of thing.

When she's at her most sensible, Hermione is inclined to agree. The trouble is that when it comes to Fleur Delacour, there is very little sense involved in many, if not all, of Hermione's decision making processes.  
"Probably best not to mention that," Hermione comments, reaching for the freshly rinsed plate that Fleur's handing her.

"Exactement," Fleur agrees.

That night, Hermione’s grateful when her parents do not fight her when she says that she has to leave, to go to a safe place. She hasn’t told them much about what exactly is happening in the wizarding world, and they’re reading the _Prophet_ so they’re certainly woefully misinformed. Hermione supposes that she could be better about letting them know what’s happening up at the school, but she’s starting to get the sinking suspicion that their mail is being screened. 

Hermione asks Fleur to erect basic wards around her parents’ home before they leave. She hopes it will be enough to keep her parents safe until she can find a way to tell them that they need to leave England for their own safety.

~

They go to France after Christmas, and Fleur takes Hermione to Paris for the New Year’s celebration. Hermione has been to France before, yes, but never like this. Fleur is not from Paris, her family’s home is out in the country to the north, but Fleur _knows_ the city like the palm of her hand.

“You sure you don’t want to stay with us,” Harry asks as Hermione buttons up her coat and slings her overnight bag over her shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, his face twisted down into a frown. Hermione knows that he’s thinking that she’s a fool for going away when everyone is in such clear danger. She wonders if it had been Fleur, rather than Cedric who had ended up at the Triwizard Cup if it would be any different. She can't imagine what that would feel like, and she shakes her head no.

"I want to do this," Hermione confesses. Harry's always been the most understanding person she's ever known. He still seems sad that she's leaving him to deal with the mess of Mr. Weasley being so badly injured and Sirius cooped up in this god-awful house. "This might be the only chance I ever get."

Harry pulls his glasses off the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes, the skin on his forehead twists as he does so and his scar seems to dance in the dim light of the hallway. "You shouldn't think about things like that," he says fiercely. 

"There's a war coming, Harry," Hermione shakes her head. "I'd be a fool to not at least think about it."

Harry stands tall; his eyes exactly level with Hermione's own. He's stopped growing, she's noticed, he is probably always going to be short because of how his aunt and uncle treated him when he was a child. "She wouldn't have been picked as a champion if she was just a pretty face, Hermione. You'll make it through this."

"I hope so," Hermione bites her lip and says nothing more. Harry's right, Fleur is a brilliant witch, but she's still so full of fear and nerves over everything that's happening right now that even the slightest seed of doubt grows within her. 

She tips forward, wrapping her arms around Harry, grateful that he's always been there to be her rock. She hugs him tightly as she always does when they part. She knows it's stupid, but when she leaves him, she always feels like there's a chance this could be her last goodbye. 

"Give my best to Mr. Weasley and the others?" she asks as they pull apart.

Harry nods and gives a small salute. "Bring me back a shirt or something?" 

Hermione glances down at his over-sized t-shirt that's poking out of last-year's Weasley jumper. "One that fits you?"

"Cour'," Harry laughs and Hermione turns towards the door.

They're meeting in a bathroom at King's Cross of all places. Hermione takes the underground and falls back into the embrace of what she knows and has always known. The people here are not aware of the world that exists just underneath their noses, cloaked by magic and secrecy laws so strict that Hermione sometimes finds them barbaric. 

There are times when Hermione is sitting like this, surrounded by muggles, that she feels completely out of sync. This isn't what she wanted when she first received her Hogwarts letter. She did not want to feel as though she is an outsider in the places where she's grown up.

She glances to the right and reads the headlines of the _Financial Times_ that the business man sitting next to her is perusing. There's talk of some piece of American legislation that the government are interested in replicating. Hermione doesn't know what the acronym that is printed across the front page stands for, but she's willing to bet that it's something foolish and reactionary like most American policies.

Shifting, Hermione reaches into her bag and pulls out the book that Fleur gave her for her birthday. She's got some time before they're truly in the heart of London. She opens it up and begins to read.

When Professor Lupin was teaching their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, he did not spend much time teaching about sentient magical creatures. Hermione knows that if Umbridge was not in charge of their class that they would at least be touching on the varying magical styles of differing species. She remembers the sixth year girls discussing the seductive powers of Vampires at length last year in their corners of the library. 

Hermione wonders if they should discuss magical creatures at all in the DA, since they'll definitely be on the Defense O.W.L. She makes a mental note to look into it and goes back to her book. 

When the next station is announced as King's Cross, Hermione stands and holds onto a bar by the subway car's door. There're more people on the train now, a thick crush of people that makes Hermione far more nervous than she rationally thinks that she should be. She's among muggles, not Voldemort's followers here, but she cannot shake the anxiety. It's like the Quidditch World Cup last year, the same sort of panic that grips her stomach as she pushes her away through the crowd towards the bathroom where they're set to meet.

She ducks under the Out of Order sign and presses her wand to the third indentation of the interior door. It opens soundlessly and Hermione steps into one of the three International Portkey stations in London. She's never been here before, but it looks every bit as busy as the train station outside.

Fleur is standing by a ticket counter, deep in conversation with the clerk. She's got both of her elbows up on the counter and is leaning forward on one toe, her other knee is bent and Hermione's swallowing a little self-consciously as she hurries over to stand beside here.

"Bon," Fleur is saying. She turns to smile brightly as Hermione hurries up and rummages in her bag for her muggle passport and the wizarding equivalent that she's had since her second year when her parents took her to France. "Ah, 'ermione. I was just telling ze clerk 'ere zat ‘ou would be along, 'e needs your ..." She turns back to the clerk. "Pardon, which passeport will we be needing?"

The clerk smiles politely and turns to Hermione. "If you have a muggle passport I will need to stamp it as well," she explains to Hermione, who hands both of them over. "That way if the muggles catch you can prove that you entered the country via ferry in Calais." She stamps both of Hermione's passports and hands them back to her. "Do you have anything to declare?"

"No, thank you," Hermione replies.

"Alright, you and Ms. Delacour are leaving for Portkey Gate 20 in ten minutes. Take a left and go to the end of Corridor B." The clerk hands them two tickets and Hermione's face falls, had Fleur paid for her ticket? She has Christmas money from her aunts and uncles; she can pull her own weight.  
The hallway is long and winding; it takes them a few minutes to get to where they need to be with the crush of wizards coming and going from the small alcoves littered with bits of what appears to be muggle rubbish. Hermione spots their departure point and they find a bench to wait the remaining fifteen minutes before they depart. 

Hermione doesn't know how to articulate that she's annoyed that Fleur took care of her ticket. She chews the inside of her cheek and folds her arms across her chest. 

"'ermione?" Fleur asks, her face a picture of concern. "Is everything alright?"

Swallowing, Hermione shrugs. "I could have paid for my own ticket," she says, feeling petulant. Fleur has family money, as does Hermione when she thinks about it. She's never wanted for anything in her life - not like Harry or Ron. It's just a different sort of feeling, somehow. Like she doesn't want to be taken care of because she's younger and still in school. They're supposed to be equals.

Fleur's face falls and she reaches forward and takes Hermione's hand in her own. It's warm and Hermione is very distracted by the feel of their skin brushing against each other. She's a bundle of nerves and hormones and it's a mess. "Je suis desole, I meant no'zing by it. I 'ad 'oped to erm... accélére - expedite the process."

"Okay," Hermione says. And she thinks she understands.

Fleur's hand tightens in her own and Hermione lets herself be pulled to her feet and into the portkey alcove and then across the Channel and into the heart of Paris.

The hotel is owned by a squib cousin of Fleur's father, so they don't have to pay to stay there. Hermione peeks at the nightly rates in the brochure and winces, quickly doing the conversion from pounds to galleons and then to francs in her head. This is a much nicer place than Hermione had anticipated. She was thinking of an inn like The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade or the Leaky Cauldron. This... this is _different_ and a lot nicer than what she's used to.

They leave their things and Fleur draws Hermione out into the city.

~

The Spice Girls are playing everywhere. Hermione knows that she's missing a cultural revolution by not going to school in the muggle world. Their music is so popular it's being remixed by muggles and wizards alike, playing in the dance club that Fleur's shyly asked her if she'd like to go to as they count down the New Year.

She's too young to be in this club, she doesn't know how to dance like these sophisticated-looking French girls, and she certainly doesn't know what to do with the drink that's been given to her by Fleur. She's only ever had butterbeer. She's far too young to be drinking like this, out in public.

She wrinkles her nose and pushes the concoction with its ridiculous umbrella and orange slice back towards Fleur. "There's fire whiskey in this," she says in a tone that she really, really hopes doesn't sound too much like Mrs. Weasley. She doesn't want to be a stick in the mud, but she's not entirely comfortable with this either. 

Fleur stares at her for a moment, before she picks up the drink and disappears back up to the bar. Hermione watches her go with confusion, and wonders if this is what it's like to be nearly of age. She doesn't want to offend Fleur, but she's not ready.

"J'avais pense..." Fleur says when she comes back. She has two bottles of butterbeer in her hands and looks absolutely lost. "'ermione 'ou are nearly of age, no one 'ere would care."

She takes the butterbeer that's offered to her and nods her agreement. "I know," she says as the music turns quieter and slower. It's a slow dancing song - Hermione thinks it's maybe Ace of Base, but popular music that's actually successfully made the crossover from the muggle world to the wizarding world really isn't Hermione's forte. "I just... I want to remember tonight."

"Peut-être," Fleur taps her chin with a knowing smile on her face. "'ou are zinking zat 'ou are still too young, non?"

"I didn't want to offend you," Hermione mumbles, peeling at the label on her butterbeer. The book that Fleur's given her about veela has been a fascinating read, even if it's only told her things she already knows. Hermione's very aware that veela are proud creatures, and when you add to that a general level of _Frenchness_ , you get the creature that is Fleur Delacour. 

"Pas de rien," Fleur shakes her hand dismissively. "I see zat zey are playing more muggle music zan usual."  
Hermione bites her lip and smiles shyly. She's glad that this isn't going to be an issue. 

They dance long into the night, and Hermione has enough butterbeer to feel a pleasant buzz despite her wish to avoid the harder stuff. It's nice, really. She feels a little bit like the world has taken on this sort of cheerful hue that she knows is just a venire before the coming storm.

If this is the one moment that they can have, then so be it. She can stomach the feeling of absolute contentedness as she dances with Fleur (and discovers that Fleur apparently listens to a good deal of muggle radio as she knows all the words to ‘Love Shack’ and can sing it in near-perfect English).

Fleur whispers things in hurried French in Hermione's ear as the night turns late. It's French that she's come to know out of necessity, despite the fact that they've had so many problems with distraction when it comes to Fleur teaching Hermione the language. Hermione has been pleasantly surprised by how easy it is for her to communicate here. She's learned more than she thought, apparently. "I will take care of 'ou," Fleur promises.

Her hands are on Hermione's hips and her lips are pressed, hot and open against Hermione's neck. The club is dark and Hermione can't see Fleur's eyes, but she knows that they're black as night. She closes her eyes and lets Fleur guide her in a dance she doesn't quite understand. The bass is pounding in her ears and the lyrics of songs that she's heard on the muggle and wizarding radio alike all seem to blur together.

Fleur does not do any more than kiss her as the buzz that Hermione's got from the butterbeer becomes more evident. Hermione wants to do more than kiss her, and she moves to do so, fingers skirting around the bottom of Fleur's t-shirt. Fleur stops her then, and pulls her out into the street and away from the noise and heat of the club. "I will not press you, tonight," she promises, taking Hermione's hand and resting it on her chest. "'ou 'ave 'ad too much to say yes."

Hermione thinks that Fleur's being unfair and that she'll be fine. But when she tries to protest and the words come out a jumble of English and the odd French word, Hermione realizes that Fleur probably has a point. She leans against Fleur's chest and sighs. "I didn't mean..."

"We are all young once," Fleur replies, as if she's the most worldly witch that has ever lived. "Zese zings, zey 'appen."

She wants to point out that Fleur is eighteen and barely legal herself, but she just smiles. Fleur is trying to be the grown-up as Hermione still underage in the eyes of both muggle and wizarding society.

They go back to the hotel and watch the fireworks from the balcony. Fleur makes Hermione take muggle aspirin before she goes to sleep with two large glasses of water. It is a strange thing, to fall asleep feeling like she's spinning. Fleur's hand keeps her grounded and Hermione smiles as the world slips away to dreams.

~

Going back to school is horrible. Dumbledore, according to Sirius and Tonks, is worried about there being possible attacks on the train. The plan is to take the Knight Bus directly from Grimmauld Place to Hogsmeade and Hermione already hates the idea of it given Harry’s descriptions of his ride on it the summer before third year. Tonks and Professor Lupin are going to ride with them, just to ensure that they make it back in one piece.

Fleur is sitting in the front parlor of Grimmauld Place, talking to Tonks and Bill Weasley when Hermione finds them. Their morning has been hurried and unpleasant, the hot water heater is broken again and Kreacher refuses to fix it. Even in the front parlor, she can hear Sirius yelling at the blasted machine from all the way down in the basement. 

Bill smiles at Hermione and she gives him a one-armed hug. She's never had a big brother before, but that's what Bill really feels like to her. Charlie's never really been around, but Hermione's gotten to know Bill pretty well as she's gotten to know the Weasleys better. He's a good man, a great friend to Fleur. Fleur's confessed that he's been invaluable with advice when it comes to working her way through achieving a mastery, as he'd done it himself. 

"Alright, Hermione?" He says and she nods. Her eyes are trained on Fleur. It's eleven now, and the Knight Bus is supposed to arrive at noon on the dot. She's scarcely had a free moment to think, let alone speak to Fleur. Not to mention that she's been up half the night making O.W.L. study planners for herself, Ron and Harry. She's sure that they'll definitely help the three of them to be as prepared as they can possibly be for the exams in June. 

Fleur had watched her work from behind an old spell book that she'd found in the library. It was written in Old French, so Fleur was slowly translating it as a favor for Dumbledore and Sirius as they apparently taught the language at Beauxbatons.

"Zey are not going to like zat," she had pointed out after Hermione had scowled and replaced yet another page after an errant blob of ink dripped down onto the page she was copying. She’s going to charm the planners to recite useful reminders throughout the coming days and weeks before she gives them to Harry and Ron, but she’s still got the trace on her, so that will have to wait until she’s back at school.

She'd turned to glare at Fleur, who had smiled that cheeky smile that Hermione had grown so attached to. "Why do you think that?"

"Zey are not 'ou, 'ermione," Fleur had explained. "Zey do not 'ave the 'ead for knowledge zat 'ou 'ave."  
Hermione had flushed and muttered that she would make them use the homework planners if it was the last thing she did. Harry and Ron were positively infuriating at times - they cared so little for their academics. 

Hermione understood it with Harry to some extent, but Ron had two head boys in his family! As much as she was loath to admit it, Fred and George were also pretty talented and Ginny was well ahead of the rest of her year when it came to her best subjects. 

If only he'd apply himself, Hermione thinks ruefully.

"Did you want a mo'?" Bill asks, glancing between Hermione and Fleur. Tonks has already gotten up and has knocked over a potted plant in the corner. She's repairing it, her cheeks and hair a bright, embarrassed red.

Fleur nods and Bill stands up and smiles brightly at the pair of them. "Knight Bus comes at noon, make sure you're all collected," he says, tapping his watch with his finger. He helps Tonks to right the plant and closes the door behind them when they leave.

"I don't want to go back," Hermione confesses quietly. She's full of dread, not knowing what's set to happy back at school or out in the real world. Fleur's already gone back to work, coming home with overheard whisperings by her goblin peers about the coming fight. She's worried about Fleur, because she knows that while Fleur is certainly not a Gryffindor, she has that same fool-hardy trait in her.

Fleur's eyes are particularly dark as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small leather pouch. "I do not want 'ou to leave eizer, chèrie," Fleur agrees. She takes Hermione's hand and tips the leather pouch over. "I 'ad meant to give zis to 'ou before now, but les temps... zey were never quite correct."

In Hermione's palm there is a thin silver chain with a small, pale blue circular stone at its center. Hermione holds it up, staring at it with wide eyes.

"I cannot ask zat 'ou wear it, only zat when 'ou do, zat 'ou never take it off," Fleur continues, her eyes wide and nervous.

She's read the book that Fleur had given her for her birthday enough times that she knows what this present means, and she swallows hotly. "I..." she starts, picking her words very carefully. There are parts of Fleur's being that are not entirely human, and her reaction to what Hermione says to this will not be human at all. "I accept," she knows she's faltered, stuttered like a fool, but she can't believe that Fleur would offer it so freely. 

"Bon," Fleur says, her lips are a thin line. 

Hermione's brow furrows. She can understand Fleur's hesitation, but she doesn't like the way that Fleur doesn't really seem happy. "Is everything alright?"

"It is jus' zat my intention was not to give zis to 'ou at zis moment," Fleur runs a hand though her hair and stares at the necklace in Hermione's hand. "But I saw 'ow zat 'orrible woman was. If it is official, so to speak, she cannot punish 'ou for being wiz me."

"She wouldn't dare," Hermione says angrily, undoing the necklace and looping it under her hair. She fumbles with the clasp and Fleur scoots forward, taking the delicate chain from Hermione and fastening it around her neck. It falls around Hermione's neck, warm and comforting. 

Fleur trails her fingers down to rest on the stone, her eyes half-closed and her features shifting under Hermione's gaze. Hermione has only seen this once before, and she swallows. Fleur cannot shift, not as a full Veela can, but her features do change. "Zis is 'ow we are," Fleur whispers. "Je," she starts in French and falters, but Hermione gives the barest of nods for encouragement. She wants to hear what Fleur has to say. Fleur seems to find herself after that first faltering moment and finally says, "Je le veux, 'ermione. More zan any'zing."

"It would be an honor," Hermione whispers fiercely. She leans in and presses her lips to Fleur's, desperate to say everything that she cannot say out loud. Fleur's fingers tangle in her hair and Hermione says yes in a thousand ways, over and over again. 

They do not say goodbye later, and Hermione clambers onto the Knight Bus with some trepidation, settling onto a bed next to Ginny. The necklace and the implications of it weigh heavily on her as Grimmauld place fades out of view. 

"Alright?" Ginny asks, nudging Hermione in the arm.

She starts, her fingers tangled up in the necklace. 

"Yes," Hermione lies. "I'm fine."

She has no idea how she's ever going to explain this and her hands are itching to do _something_. She has yarn in her bag – she’d brought it from school thinking that she might have some downtime over the holiday to knit some more hats for the Hogwarts house elves. Hermione is about to reach into her bag for her needles and the ball of yarn when the Knight Bus lurches suddenly to the left and she feels her breakfast surge angrily against her stomach.

Maybe after they get back to Hogwarts she can try to knit some. Right now she has to focus on keeping her stomach.

~

They’ve barely been back at school for a week when Pansy Parkinson of all blasted people catches sight of Hermione’s necklace. She notices while they’re out on patrol together, checking for rule breakers and upset students as it is their duty as prefects. Hermione hates the fact that they’ve been assigned patrol duty together again, but both Professors McGonagall and Snape have insisted that they remain a pair.

“You’ve worked quite well together,” Professor McGonagall had insisted when Hermione had gone to see her at the start of term to request a different partner. Evidently Pansy had done the same, and Snape had turned her down as well. They’d both commiserated about it for the first half of their two hour long patrol of the hallways together. 

They're not friends, not even acquaintances really. Hermione knows that Pansy looks down on her and hates her for her blood status. She hates how Pansy has never given her a chance, and her jaw tightens as Pansy describes the Malfoy's ball at New Year's.

Once, when Hermione was just a child, she'd wanted to be a princess. She would have been the practical sort that would rule with a just hand and help the people of the world. She might have been a little infatuated with Princess Diana at the time, Hermione reasons when she thinks back on it now. The fact remains that Hermione had wanted those balls, dancing in bright lights with everyone watching her.

Now, as she's grown, she finds the whole idea silly, but she does miss the innocence of the idea. She hates that she knows that Pansy is absolutely not a picture of innocence and gets to experience her childhood dreams. 

They pause at the prefects’ bathroom on the fourth floor and Hermione wonders if this is the one that Harry used when he was trying to figure out the second task last year. There are at least two other bathrooms that only prefects have access to that she knows about however, so it could have been a different one. “I’m getting a drink,” Pansy announces and heads towards the fountain at the back of the bathroom.

The hour is growing late and Hermione hasn’t slept very well since they’ve come back to school. Over the holiday she’d grown spoiled, sleeping with Fleur every night, not caring with Sirius or Mrs. Weasley had to say about it.

She’s worried about Fleur. She knows that she shouldn’t be and that Fleur’s better protected than most staying at Grimmauld Place. Still, the worry is always there. They know that things are happening now. Fleur won't tell her anything about what Mr. Weasley got hurt guarding at the Ministry of Magic, but Hermione knows that it has to be important. 

This is why Harry's started occlumency lessons with Professor Snape - because he's dreaming images of Voldemort. Hermione's brow narrows and she reaches to twist the necklace around her neck back into place. She stares hard at her face in the mirror, frizzy hair and hallow-looking eyes. 

She has got to get better about sleeping, but she's grown spoiled with the holiday.

"She doesn't waste time, does she?" Pansy says and Hermione shoves the necklace under her sweater hurriedly, her cheeks flushing a bright red. Of all the people to see it.

Hermione knows better than to feign ignorance around a Slytherin, especially one as prone to gossip as Pansy Parkinson. She turns up her nose and stares Pansy right in her ruddy brown eyes. "What of it? she demands instead of denying anything. Pansy's never expressed an objection to her relationship, merely to her blood status. 

Pansy folds her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing and her prefect badge glittering the flickering torchlight of the bathroom. "You can't commit to something like that, Granger. You're not of age."

As if Hermione isn't aware of _that_. This whole thing is a mess and she’s really not sure how she is going to go about telling her parents just what the implications of taking jewelry from one of veela decent means. Her face twists downwards into a scowl and she steps towards Pansy. She knows that there are others in this school who probably have heritage that is similar to Fleur's. It is not exactly an uncommon situation among pureblood families. If Pansy's face wasn't so bloody awful, Hermione would probably hazard a guess that there might be some creature in her blood as well. Hermione reasons that a troll is a viable option. 

Still, attempting to appeal to a human side of Pansy and her prejudices is probably the only way that she's going to get out of this without the whole school finding out. She takes a deep breath. "I didn't say yes," she confesses. "A professor found us, during the Hogsmeade visit in October; we were up on the hill."

Pansy's face is still a picture of smug disinterest, but she nods almost imperceptivity, and Hermione continues, "They had some choice things to say and while nothing has come of it, Fleur did not want to take the risk that something would."

"That's..." Pansy is clearly torn and Hermione can see it, because so many of the old families have intermarried with the sentient creatures to keep the magic in their families strong. Hermione watches as Pansy weighs the situation and finally comes to a conclusion. "I suppose I should congratulate you for finding a way to advance above your station."

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek hard to keep herself from hexing Pansy. Her knuckles are white around her wand in her pocket and there are three jinxes on her lips that would make the next twenty-four hours that Pansy Parkinson lives a living _hell_. 

The bell tolls the hour and Hermione forces herself to smile as politely as possible. She hates the playacting. They’ve already chosen their allegiances, no matter how much the Sorting Hat had urged for house unity at the start of the school year. So long as Pansy’s loyalties lie with Draco Malfoy and his cronies, Hermione cannot see a way that they will be any more than civil with each other. And civil, it seems, is really pushing the envelope. "See you Saturday then?" she says through gritted teeth.

Pansy starts to answer than then and then shakes her head. "No, we have Charms together this term."

"Wednesday then," Hermione says curtly before stalking, still fuming, from the prefect's bathroom. 

Hermione weaves her way up towards Gryffindor tower, taking several secret passageways and slamming doors behind her as she went. She can barely get the password out of her mouth around clenched teeth and she ignores the Fat Lady’s sleepy reply as the door to the common room swings open and Hermione clambers into the portal hole. 

Harry is standing by the fire, staring down at it with a pensive expression on his face. "Hermione?" he questions and Hermione halts, groaning loudly. "You alright?"

She shakes her head. "I hate her," she mutters. "I hate them all so much."

"Who?"

"Pansy Parkinson and her smug friends." She shakes her head. There's no way that she's telling two people about it in one night, even if she's sure that Harry's reaction will be supportive, if not-quite-comprehending what it all means. "It's nothing, how did your occlumency lesson go?"

"Rubbish," Harry kicked a coal that had popped out of the fire back towards the flames. "Snape is a bloody awful teacher."

~

Harry's occlumency lessons are a disaster, so much so that in one of her letters to Fleur Hermione asks if she's ever studied the art. When Fleur's reply comes back in the negative, Hermione hangs her head and slumps down over her toast and orange juice.

"Take it Fleur's never done it either?" Ron asks when he sees Hermione's defeated look. There are no books in the library on occlumency that describe it as more than a theoretical practice. Hermione is absolutely _positive_ that Snape has books on the subject but they're not really supposed to know that Harry's getting lessons in the first place. She can’t exactly go up and ask him if he’d be willing to let her borrow them, the man isn’t exactly friendly on his best days. She chews on her lip and reaches for another slice of toast. 

"She says that it was not covered as part of the curriculum at Beauxbatons," Hermione folds the letter carefully and tucks it into her Ancient Runes textbook. She has a free period while Harry and Ron go and suffer Professor Trelawney's terrible excuse for a class, and Fleur's written a great deal more than just an answer to the occlumency question.

"Bugger," Ron mutters. 

"Mn," Hermione agrees. 

She walks Harry and Ron to the stairs that lead up towards the divination classroom, saying goodbye to them before she hangs a left and heads down the corridor towards the library. 

A pang of loneliness fills Hermione's heart as she walks into the library. It's a place that she'd come to associate with Fleur over the previous school year. That time was gone now, and Hermione has to move past it. She very purposefully does not walk to the alcove towards the Restricted Section where she and Fleur had lingered when Hermione really should have been in class. Instead, Hermione settles in one of the arm chairs towards the front, near Madame Pince's desk. 

The librarian gives Hermione a polite nod as she walks by the circulation desk as soon as she sees that Hermione is without Harry and Ron. Hermione smiles politely back and pulls her Ancient Runes textbook and Fleur's letter out from where she's put it for safekeeping.

 _Mon Amour,_ it begins in Fleur's flowing script.

_It truly pains me that I can offer no help to you or Harry. Occlumency was not a covered subject at Beauxbatons, and I have no idea what sort of books you should look for in order to help Harry have better luck with his lessons. Professor Snape is very challenging to work with in a group; I cannot imagine what he would be like one on one. Harry is a braver soul than I._

_I miss you more with every passing moment. Perhaps I was a fool to make that promise to you when I did. There is a war coming, and there are times when I wonder if it is my grandmother's influence or my French heritage that makes me the romantic that I am. I wanted you to have it, because that is my intent. Veela love only with time and it is a great and terrible love. For one to find it at such a young age is rare indeed._

_I am glad I found you, Hermione. You have come to represent so much to me as I try to make myself into a person you could make the same promise to. I hope that I can live up to your expectations. I love you._

_Do not worry about Mlle. Parkinson. She will not share the details with her head of house or any of her peers because she has been raised in the old English wizarding way. She would know better than to offend a veela, even on whose blood is as diluted as my own. To tell others when it has not been announced would be a slight that might bring ill luck (if she is the superstitious type) upon her family name. There was once a time when Veela were guardians of the hearth and household, but that time has long since passed._

_I know that the responsibility of such a promise must weigh on you, but when I saw how that woman looked at you, I could not help myself. I am not there to protect you from her ire, and while I know that you can take care of yourself, I cannot help myself at times. She is truly vile and I cannot stand the idea of her hurting you and your education any more than she already has. I've enclosed some of my notes from my own fifth year with this letter. Perhaps they will be of some use to you with your endeavors to be prepared for your examinations. Don't worry, I have translated them._

_I miss you terribly with every passing day. Professor Dumbledore told me that the Hogsmeade visit for this coming month falls on Valentine's Day. Would you like to suggest a place?_

_I await your word, as always._

_Fleur._

Hermione swallows and swipes at her eyes. She’s a hormonal mess these days, and she mentally counts back the days since she last had her monthly. It makes sense that she’s early, because she certainly is not one of _those_ girls who gets teary eyed over a simple and heart-felt letter. She sniffs one more time and hates that she can’t seem to get herself together enough to actually pen a reply to Fleur. 

There is a muggle pen buried at the base of her bag, and she fishes it out along with a composition book that she’d purchased at the corner shop just down the street from Grimmauld Place. Hermione clicks the back of the pen, drawing the nib out, and opens the composition book to a blank page.

 _Mom and Dad -_ she writes. _I’ve successfully made it back to Hogwarts after a rather hectic trip back to school on the wizarding bussing system – more commonly known as the Knight Bus. There was concern about the trains, and a great many students ended up taking the bus back to the village._ She’s not exactly being truthful there, but what her parents don’t know really can’t hurt them. They’d been the only students not to ride the train, a fact that she is absolutely positive had been noted by Umbridge. She adds, as if for good measure, another lie, _Professor McGonagall and Hagrid came to fetch us and take us back to school._

 _I’m actually writing to tell you about a conversation that Fleur and I had right before I left to return to school. This past October,_ Hermione puts the back of the pen in her mouth and sucks on it pensively, debating how best to word what she’s about to say. It’s best to not risk exposing anything that might potentially incriminate Professor Umbridge in case the school’s owl is intercepted, but Hermione desperately wants to tell her parents about the horrible troll that the defense professor is. She settles the pen once more, tempering her want to complain about Umbridge. _Fleur came to visit. Don’t worry; I wasn’t breaking any school rules. Sometimes parents will come to the village and have meals with particularly homesick students. As a prefect, I’ve arranged it a few times already this year._

_While Fleur was visiting, we were met by a professor who took issue with the relationship that Fleur and I share. I didn’t know what to do, but Fleur said just enough to make her leave once more, but I think the experience shook her up a great deal. As I mentioned before, Fleur has some heritage that is not entirely human. There are many beings in the world that are not human, but are sentient and capable of forming interpersonal relationships with humans. Fleur’s grandmother was a creature known as a veela. They are beautiful women that some scholars think were the inspiration for the Greco-Roman myths of sirens and harpies as they take on a bird shape when angered._

_Unlike the relationship between people like myself – of non-magical origins – and wizards who are of mixed or fully-magical heritage; it is quite common within the wizarding community to intermarry with such creatures as it helps to keep magic strong within families. There have been some studies that I’ve read that imply that without this intermarriage that magic slowly leaves a family line. Regardless, it’s fairly common within the wizarding community._

_This professor’s comments, however, were not about the fact that we are both girls, but rather that Fleur is not fully human. Veela are a proud race, and to offend one is a great slight within wizarding society. Fleur held herself in check nicely, I was impressed._

_The professor, however, cannot hurt Fleur. Fleur is of age and no longer in a school that this professor holds any influence over. I, however, am still under her purview, and as such, Fleur offered me a necklace and I was very reluctant to accept._

_You see, to accept jewelry from a veela is almost like a promise ring is in some sects of Christianity. It is a promise of fidelity and in some cases almost like a pre-engagement. Fleur did not offer it to me with that in mind, I assure you!_

_No, what you must understand is that there are very specific sorts of jewelry that are offered, we learned about them in Care of Magical Creatures class just a few months ago. Fleur wanted the jewelry to be seen by the professor in question because she felt that if it was seen, then I would not be harassed for being with her. It is taught that an offense on a veela’s intended is an offense on all veela, and I think Fleur really just wanted to save me some grief from those among the staff here who are not as open-minded as my peers are.  
I wanted to tell you both now, before you hear about it from anyone else. As of right now, it is nearly an empty gesture. Please remember that I would never do something as drastic as _ that _at sixteen, you both raised me better than that._

_I love you both,_

_Hermione_

It’s not quite perfect, but it’s all that Hermione can think to say.

~

Hermione’s blood runs cold when the _Daily Prophet_ owl arrives one morning in early February. She fumbles in her bag for the needed knuts and pays the owl hurriedly and unrolls the paper, nearly spilling her pumpkin juice in the process. She cannot help herself when she lets out a surprised little yelp that has everyone at the table staring at her. The headline reads that there has been a mass breakout at Azkaban, and that it is feared that Sirius Black is behind the rallying cry for Voldemort’s supporters.

“What is it?” both Harry and Ron ask as one.

Hermione spreads out the newspaper and points at the headline as Harry and Ron peer over her shoulders and read the article nearly as quickly as she has. This is bad, very, very bad. Hermione bites her lip as Harry and Ron read, wondering what everyone in the Order is up to right now. Fleur hasn’t said anything at all in her letters about the work that she’s doing with them, and Hermione can’t help the uneasy feeling in her stomach that settles when her gaze slides up to the staff table at the front of the Great Hall. The same gaunt, staring faces that are glaring menacingly at the three of them are staring out from over almost every professor’s breakfast. Only Umbridge seems completely unperturbed, reading a copy of _Witch Weekly_ and sipping tea. 

Harry taps the headline, his voice rising far above where it should, “Black?” he sounds almost surprised, and Hermione really doesn’t understand why. Of _course_ the Ministry controlled press is going to push for Sirius’ involvement. “No-”

“Shh,” Hermione hisses at him. She prods at the face of Antonin Dolohov, who she’s pretty sure is the one who murdered Mrs. Weasley’s older brothers. She glances around and sees that there are heads gathered around newspapers across all four tables and that from the staff table, Professor Umbridge is looking slightly put-out. “Just read it.”

Hermione thinks back to the previous evening, about how Harry had returned from his occlumency lesson angry and had disappeared off to bed. She’d sent Ron to check on him and hadn’t been at all surprised to have Ron tell her later that Harry’d been dreaming of Voldemort. If Hermione hadn’t known better, she would guess that Harry was purposefully sabotaging his occlumency lessons because he _wanted_ to know what Voldemort was up to. Harry wouldn’t do something so absolutely idiotic, she is sure of it.

“Tha’s why he was so happy last night, Harry,” Ron sounds a little stunned and Hermione nudges him with her shoulder. They’d talked about how it wasn’t a good plan for Harry to keep trying to do what he was doing, but Hermione isn’t really sure if it actually go through to Ron or not. 

“Why is Fudge blaming Sirius?!” Harry growls angrily, making to pick up the paper. Hermione slaps at his hand, because it is her paper, thank you very much. He can pay for his own or read it when she’s finished. 

“Because he has to save face,” Hermione explains, opening to follow the jump. The breakout sounds like it was a grisly sort of a thing – all the human guards who worked at Azkaban were killed. She bites her lip and turns to see Harry and Ron staring blankly at her. “Honestly, he’s been telling everyone that Dumbledore and Harry both are off their rockers for the past six months since Cedric was murdered. He can’t very well change his tune now.”

There’s another story that’s caught her eye, and she turns the page over to read it. A ministry employee named Broderick Bode who was staying at St. Mungo’s was found strangled to death by devils snare that had been disguised as a houseplant and left for him as a gift. “That… that’s _horrible_ Hermione says quietly. 

“What now,” Harry’s apparently been inspecting the staff table as well, but he turns his attention back to Hermione as she pushes her toast plate out of the way and lays the paper flat on the table. As he and Ron read the article, Hermione’s mind is working a mile a minute, trying to figure out what she can do to make sure that know what is happening.

The _Prophet_ cannot be trusted, that much is becoming more and more apparent. Hermione remembers this from the book that her father gave her for her birthday – when the Vichy Regime was set up in France during World War Two they used the state run media to spread propaganda. This was the same, just perpetuated in a far more modern sense. There had to be a way that someone could write an article that was guaranteed to be read…

 _What had Fleur said about the resistance?_ Hermione racks her brain, trying to think past the distracting image of Fleur’s smiling face and the way that sun hit her eyes and made them look like sapphires. It seems like those lessons were a lifetime ago – so much as happened since then. 

“We saw him,” Hermione says as Harry and Ron stare at each other. “At St. Mungo’s, when we were visiting your dad – he was across from Lockheart.” The more Hermione thinks about that moment, the more it comes back to her. She cannot believe she’d never put the pieces together before. “We saw the devils snare arrive, or at least I did. The nurse brought it in.”

“How could we not have recognized it?” Harry demands. “I mean, we’ve all seen it before, we know what it does. We could have stopped this from happening.”

“It’s not our fault,” Ron shakes his head. “Who on earth could have expected that? The person who sent it to the bloke is a real prat, who doesn’t know to check what they’re buying?”

Hermione wants to roll her eyes, but it’s hit her. She’s got to check and see if _she_ would be willing to do it, and then she has to find place to publish that would be widely read, but certainly not mainstream enough to attract the ministry (and professor Umbridge’s) attention. “Oh come on,” she says. She wants to belay the fact that it can’t be their fault to Harry, who’s looking ashen-faced and somewhat like he wants to throw up. “No one can possibly be that stupid, its first year herbology! No, this… this has to have been murder, and a really clever one at that.” She scans the article one more time. “It says here that it was sent anonymously, how on earth are they ever going to figure out who did it?”

 _The Quibbler_ , Hermione thinks, and she folds up the newspaper as Ron and Harry realize what exactly it was that Mr. Bode did at the Ministry of Magic. She doesn’t see Luna Lovegood over at the Ravenclaw table as she gets her things and stares one last time at the faces of the escaped Death Eaters. 

“Where are you off to?” Ron asks.

“To send a letter,” Hermione replies absently. She really hopes that it’ll work, and that she’ll be interested in doing it. She can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be – considering who she’d be interviewing. “It’s a long shot, but it might be worth trying. Regardless, I’m the only one who can do it.” She takes one more look at Ron’s completely flabbergasted face and turns to leave, pretending that she doesn’t hear him announce loudly to half the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables that he _hates_ it when she does this. 

She supposes it’s even though, because she hates how he doesn’t use his brain most of the time.

Hermione makes her way quickly up to the owlery, grateful that she has a muggle pen and blank paper to write with because she’s honestly not sure that she can dash off this letter and get to Charms class on time all in the very limited amount of time that she has to do so. She thinks back, almost ruefully, to the time turner that she used in her third year.

The owlery smells a lot like the fourth-floor bedroom that Sirius had kept Buckbeak in at Grimmauld Place, and Hermione’s nose wrinkles as she finds the least dropping filled corner to squat down and use the back of her Arithmancy text book as a hard surface as she writes her letter. She’s not entirely sure what to say, so she lays herself bare, because this woman has already done far more to ruin her reputation than most people Hermione knows. 

_The only upcoming Hogsmeade visit is on Valentine’s Day,_ Hermione writes, quickly. _While I’m sure that you may have other plans, this simply cannot wait._ She’s bartering a release from the agreement they’d come to at the end of the previous year, Hermione knows that she’ll take the bait. She signs her name, folds the letter carefully, and writes “Rita Skeeter” across the front of it. A school owl flutters down and she hands the letter over to the bird, stroking its cheek for a moment before shouldering her bag and heading towards the steps out of the owlery.

~

As the days towards Valentine’s drag on and Hermione receives a very curt reply to her letter and finds the time to ask Luna Lovegood if her father would be interested in such an article, they all start to realize that no one cares all that much about the death of an obscure ministry employee. All that everyone seems to care about is the escapees from Azkaban. Hermione’s written Fleur about it, but Fleur’s reply had come back short and succinct. She should keep her head down and not go looking for trouble.

“Honestly,” Hermione mutters, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of her robes.

“What?” Ginny asks, looking sleepily up from her potions essay. Hermione remembers that one being particularly challenging. 

Sighing, Hermione flops back into the armchair she’s sitting in. “I cannot believe that Fleur of all people just told me to stay out of trouble.”

Behind her, probably making up answers to divination homework, Ron snickers. Hermione rounds on him, but his face is perfectly blank and he’s scribbling something in the homework planner that Hermione gave him right before the start of term. Her eyes narrow as he nudges the page over to Harry, whose face cracks into a wide smile.

 _Excellent_ , Hermione thinks, _they’re passing notes._ She decides that she doesn’t want to know and turns back to Ginny. “All I asked was if the Order was working on apprehending them or leaving that to the ministry. She wouldn’t even tell me that much.”

Ginny shrugs, “Can’t say I blame you for trying – what with Educational Decree Number whatever-we’re-on-now.”

“Twenty Six,” Hermione replies automatically. The teachers were banned from so much as talking about the breakout, and had taken to whispering in the hallways about it since apparently the staff room was no longer safe. Hermione hated the fact that they’d gotten Hagrid into trouble by asking him about it, and then Professors McGonagall and Sprout had both clammed up when students in their classes had tried to get more details. To be entirely honest, Hermione had been rather surprised that Umbridge hadn’t outright banned students from taking the paper daily. She reasons that it is only because the _Prophet_ is in Fudge’s pocket. 

Hermione knows that if she asks Fleur about what’s happening in person that Fleur will probably tell her – or at least she hopes that that’s the case. She and Harry both have written Fleur thanking her profusely for her notes from her fifth year of defense, they’ve helped immensely with the DA.

~

Valentines’ Day is on a Saturday. Harry has apparently asked Cho Chang to the village and it’s thrown a wrench into Hermione’s best laid plans. She tells him to bring her along if he must, but has very carefully not told Harry what’s going on. She knows that it’s probably a bad move, but she and Luna have both agreed that they need to chaperone this interview because Rita Skeeter cannot be trusted.

Harry, to his credit, seem to take the whole thing in stride, but casts a dirty look at Hermione afterwards. “Coulda warned me,” He mutters, glancing around, hands in his pockets. “I could’ve told Cho what was actually happening – now she thinks I ditched her to be with you.” He scuffles his feet and Hermione wants to scream.

“Go,” she says, glancing at her watch. She has five minutes before Fleur’s set to meet her. “Go and tell her that I’ve made a promise to Fleur and that I wouldn’t think of breaking it.”

“What’s that mean?” Harry asks. 

Hermione rolls her eyes, because this is why Harry and Ron are constantly a half a step behind. “Cho will know what I mean,” she smiles. “Apologize to her, tell her why you did it – she’ll understand.” She stands there, fiddling with her bag, knowing that Rita Skeeter is probably lurking somewhere, listening. “I have to go,” she says with a sad smile. “I’m sorry that you’re your date was ruined.”

He gives her a little shrug and heads towards where Luna is waiting at the top of the road. Hermione watches as he smiles politely at her and they start to head up the high street together. She’s glad that Harry can interact with girls at least some of the time, and shakes her head at the thought. She’s a little nervous about what they’ve just done, but she knows it’s the right thing to do. 

She turns down the alley and cuts across towards the Three Broomsticks. There are students everywhere, holding hands and generally being overly-affectionate and somewhat grotesque. Hermione knows that she’s been guilty of the same thing, but she’d never stick her tongue down Roger Davies’ throat like that girl is doing in a public place. She wrinkles her nose and slowly makes her way over to the third lamp post from the front door. The throng of students is thinner here, and Hermione leans against the lamp post, glancing at her watch once again.

 _Right on time,_ she thinks, smiling happily. She’s glad that Luna is there to walk Harry back to the school, and that the interview didn’t take as long as she’d worried that it was.

There is a faint popping behind her and Hermione turns, shivering slightly in the icy cold of the February afternoon. Fleur is standing there, wearing a thick winter cloak and a scarf that Hermione recognizes as Mrs. Weasley’s Christmastime knitting project. Hermione can’t help but feel incredibly happy that Mrs. Weasley seems to have embraced Fleur as one of her own. She knows that Fleur’s parents must be grateful that their daughter has someone taking care of her while she’s just starting out in life. 

“Salut,” Fleur says in happy French. Hermione’s face erupts into a grin that grows only wider as Fleur steps forward and pulls her in close. She smells of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and of books and magic. Hermione rests her head on Fleur’s chest and exhales.

“I missed you,” she whispers. When Fleur’s arms tighten around her she adds, “So, so much.”

“Et Je vous manqué,” Fleur replies smoothly. Her nose is slightly red when she pulls away to look at Hermione – like she’s had a cold or has been outside far too much in the wintry weather recently. Fleur’s smile is as wide as Hermione’s own and her eyes are sparkling with something that Hermione can’t quiet put into words. Fleur looks like her world is slowly being remade before her eyes, her facial features shifting ever-so-slightly under Hermione’s gaze. “I suspect ‘ou ‘ave much to tell me,” Fleur says with a small smile. 

Hermione shifts from foot to foot. “Yes,” she agrees. “I really do.”

She’s found a restaurant that’s down an alley off the high street on Ginny’s suggestion after Fleur suggested that she find a place. It’s quiet, known to Hogwarts students, but a little out of the average student’s price range. Hermione’s told Fleur that she’s not to pay, that this is her treat after their trip to Paris. 

“I’ve done a terrible thing,” Hermione confesses after they’ve placed their orders. 

Fleur shifts forward, her eyes narrowed. “Does zis ‘ave any’zing to do wiz ze letter ‘ou sent me about Monsieur Bode’s death?” She’s got this curious expression on her face that makes Hermione worried that Fleur is going to be cross with her if she tells her the truth. Hermione’s parents have always told her that the best way to support a relationship is honesty. She remembers how angry they had been when Professor McGonagall had come to explain why all the strange things that Hermione had done as a child were signs that she was a witch. They were completely honest with her then, about their fears and worries for her future. Hermione had not known, at eleven, how to handle their candor. 

She takes a deep breath and nods, feeling just a little guilty. “Do you remember when I told you how Rita Skeeter was able to find out all that information about us last year?” 

“Ah, oui,” Fleur nods, reaching for her water glass and taking a sip. 

“I er- might have made her promise that she would not print anything for a year. In exchange, I wouldn’t tell people that she was an animagus,” Hermione shifts a little uncomfortably under Fleur’s piercing gaze. “But, I was thinking about what you said last year, when you were telling me about _La Résistance Française_ , about how Charles de Gaulle was able to get the word out to the public using underground papers and the radio.” She sniffed. “The _Prophet_ is completely in the ministry’s pocket, and I realized that the problem was that no one knows what happened.”

“’ou did not,” Fleur sounds impressed and not at all disapproving. Her eyebrows have climbed high up her brow and she’s got that private sort of smile on her face that Hermione knows so well from last year.  
Hermione raises an eyebrow, “I might have facilitated it.”

The smile that comes across Fleur’s face is one that Hermione wants to remember forever. Her whole face lights up, her eyes crinkling and her teeth flash happily as she throws her head back and laughs. “Zat _chienne_ is not going to be ‘appy wiz ‘ou or ‘arry,” Fleur laughs.

“It isn’t against the rules,” Hermione points out with a wide smile. “I’ve checked.”

It is very surreal to be out on a date with Fleur. Hermione has very purposefully worn a shirt that is cut low across the neck (and subsequently her thickest, warmest scarf as it is well below freezing outside) because she wants people to see that she is with this beautiful girl whom she loves so much. The waitress whispers congratulations to her after Hermione settles the cheque and Hermione grins as Fleur draws her out of the restaurant and into the cold once more. 

There are stolen kisses as they make their way back to the Three Broomsticks. Fleur’s fingers tangle in Hermione’s hair and her kisses spell out a promise of what is to come. Hermione wishes that it could last forever, kissing Fleur amidst the falling snow. 

“I love you,” she whispers later, as Fleur fingers the necklace around Hermione’s neck with almost reverent fingers. They’re sweaty and naked and Fleur’s got that smug look on her face that she usually gets following such encounters. Hermione cannot believe her at times, because she knows that Fleur’s smugness is because of how happy Fleur is that only she gets to have Hermione.

Fleur kisses her then, slow and honest. “Je t’aime,” she says and Hermione curls closer. She doesn’t want to leave, but the hour is already drawing late. She’ll be pushing it if she doesn’t leave soon. It is good and warm here, and Hermione’s not sure if she can make herself concentrate on the time much longer if Fleur keeps kissing her like that.

Reluctantly, Hermione sits up and reaches for her bra. “I hate this,” she confesses as Fleur runs a hand through her hair and falls backwards onto the pillows beside her. She’s the picture of disheveled, her hair down and arching white against the deep red of the pillow cases. Hermione thinks she is at her most beautiful like this, when she is not putting on airs for anyone and is simply _being_.

“It is not ze best solution, non,” Fleur agrees. She watches sadly as Hermione gets up and starts to look for her pants and shirt. “But it is all zat we can ‘ave, right now.”

They’ve grown so spoiled to being around each other all the time that Hermione almost forgets that Fleur is still two years older than her. Fleur’s involved with the Order, she’s working to stop Voldemort; she’s doing everything that Hermione wishes she could be doing with all her heart. 

“I want to help with what you are doing with the Order,” Hermione says as she pulls her shirt over her head.  
Fleur’s face twists downwards into a frown and she shakes her head. “’ou are too young,” she explains, as it has been explained to Hermione, Harry and Ron time and time again. “Zis is not like ‘ou it is ‘ere. People are dying.” Fleur sits up and takes Hermione’s hand. She’s squeezing it tightly, her knuckles almost white as Hermione stares down at the connection. “I cannot risk ‘ou, mon amour. Not until I ‘ave to.”

Hermione sighs and nods. She really does understand, probably better than Harry and Ron do anyway, that the best thing she can possibly do for the Order is to say in school, learn as much as she possibly can, and prepare herself for battle. She’s not entirely sure that she _can_ do that, not with knowing what she already knows. “I don’t want to risk you, either,” she points out.

“Ah, but zat is good, I would zink,” Fleur smiles as she speaks and Hermione wants to kiss her all over again. “’ou should not worry about me,” Fleur moves her hand, twisting it in a way that Hermione’s only ever seen Fleur do once. The flesh at Fleur’s fingertips seems to flex and change, lengthening into claws that Hermione remembers from the veela at the Quidditch World Cup the previous year. “I ‘ave been practicing.”

Hermione hopes to God, Merlin and anyone else who might be watching over them, that Fleur will never have to use her heritage to protect herself.

~

Delores Umbridge suspects, but cannot prove, Hermione’s involvement with Harry’s interview in _The Quibbler_ and has taken to watching Hermione like a hawk at all times. Hermione has found this very irritating because it means that she cannot write letters to Fleur hidden up in the owlery anymore, and her movements in the library are monitored as well. Hermione doesn’t complain to anyone, however, because she knows that it will only make it worse.

“You should tell McGonagall,” Ron says after Hermione comes back to the common room, fuming because Umbridge had followed her from Professor Flitwick’s office to Sinestra’s down to drop off something for Sinestra with Professor Snape and _then_ back nearly all the way to the Gryffindor common room. “Bloody harassment is what that is.”

Harry has his hand soaking in essence of murtlap and rolls his eyes. “It’s not like it’d make her stop,” he points out sullenly. Educational Decree Number 27 has made his life dreadful, but Hermione is secretly very pleased with the outcome. Umbridge banning the magazine is probably the best way to ensure that everyone in the school (and probably outside of it) reads his interview. Luna and her father (not to mention Rita Skeeter) have really come through. “She’d probably do it more.”

“Unfortunately,” Hermione says. “But at least there is an upside; Cho’s speaking to Harry again.” And she’s very glad for that because Harry had been absolutely unbearable after his disaster of a Valentine’s Day date.

Ron seemed to weigh this for a moment before he shrugs, “From what Harry says, she was more interested in talking about Diggory anyway.”

Harry groans and sinks down in the chair and Hermione just shakes her head. They’re both helpless; she honestly doesn’t know what they’d do without her. She figures that it would probably a repeat of second year, only with something more terrifying than a basilisk.

~

Fleur is busy over the next few weeks on an assignment for work and Hermione is completely wrapped up in revising for O.W.L.s. She spends most of her time attempting to avoid Professor Umbridge, who has now officially sacked Professor Trelawney. Hermione can’t really bring herself to be too broken up over that particular sacking, but it has freed up Umbridge’s time to hone in on Hagrid. She’s attending Hagrid’s classes (but only the fifth year class according to both Ginny and Colin Creevy), and Hermione knows that Harry is starting to get progressively more and more worried for Hagrid. They’re trying, but have had yet to be successful in speaking within him to make sure that he’s okay, and he’s got all these dreadful-looking injuries injuries. Hermione suspects that he’s doing something for the Order at night, when Umbridge isn’t watching him, but she cannot prove it.

With Trelawney out of work, divination classes are being taught by one of the centaurs from the Forbidden Forest and Hermione has just about had it with Ron suggesting that she’s regretting ditching divination after third year.

“Ronald, I do not find him attractive,” Hermione seethes at him one lunch period in late March. The Great Hall is overcast and rainy, like it is outside and Hermione has spent her free period revising third year ancient rune vocabulary in preparation for their exams. This has been the fifth comment of this nature in what feels like as many days. Harry is snickering behind his hands across from her and Hermione scowls at him for a moment until she rounds on Ron. Her hand is halfway under her collar, pulling on the necklace that Fleur gave her. She pulls it out and holds it up; making sure that it catches the light of the candle floating above their heads.

“Blimey,” Ron whispers, his mouth slamming shut and his eyes widening.

“Exactly,” Hermione hisses, shoving it back under her shirt and returning to her sandwich. “So please, stop.”  
Ron’s staring at her and Hermione feels her ears burn slightly as she straightens her collar. “I can’t believe she asked you to,” and he lowers his voice with his the worst part, “ _marry_ her.”

Harry’s eyebrows climb up his forehead and Hermione sighs and gestures for them to lean in. “She didn’t,” Hermione explains. “I’m really, really sorry that I didn’t tell you about this sooner, but I wanted to handle it myself.” 

“Handle what?” Ginny asks, sliding in to sit next to her and selecting a sandwich from the tray in front of them. 

“Fleur’s given her jewelry,” Ron replies.

“Oh, because of what Professor Umbridge said to her?” Ginny looks to Hermione, who throws her hands up in the air, resigned to the fact that her life is apparently everyone else’s business and she can’t even tell a story in her own words. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“What did she say to you?” Harry asks, his eyes narrowing angrily.

Hermione sniffs, trying to not sound as put-out as she feels. This was her secret that she’d confessed to Ginny in a bout of homesickness not long after term started – she was not supposed to tell. “Well,” and Hermione lowers her voice. “Harry, when a veela gives someone jewelry it is a statement of intent an expectation of fidelity, nothing more. There’re certain pieces that are given. A necklace for women and a cuff,” she taps her wrist, “for men.”

“Hagrid said something about that in class, didn’t he?”

And Hermione has to smile, because that was in September and he actually remembers it. There might be hope for him yet. Probably not, but she can still dream.

“Yeah,” Ron nods before he turns back to Hermione. “If she doesn’t want that then why’d--”

“If you would let me _finish_ , Ronald,” Hermione says exasperatedly. He holds up his hands in defeat and Hermione continues. “Anyway, when Fleur came to visit me the second Hogsmeade weekend, we ran into Professor Umbridge and she had some choice words to say about the ‘unnaturalness’ of our relationship.”

The only reason Hermione’s willing to talk about this at all is because this is the end of the lunch hour, the Slytherin table contains only a few first years, and only Professor Sinestra is sitting up at the staff table, apparently eating lunch and grading papers at the same time. Professor Umbridge cleared out about ten minutes before Ron and Harry arrived from divination. Still, she looks around nervously after she says it, because the walls have ears in a place like Hogwarts and Umbridge is already paying her far too much attention. 

“Because you’re both girls?” Harry asks.

“No, because Fleur is part veela,” Ron replies, comprehension dawning on his face. “Tha’s gotta be why she doesn’t like Hagrid either. He’s mixed as well.”

Harry looks as grim-faced over the realization as Hermione has felt for months. "But I don't understand..." He begins and Hermione just shakes her head. There's no reasoning with it. Prejudice is part of the wizarding world, no matter how bizarre and unique Professor Umbridge's is. 

After that, Ron shuts up about Firenze the Centaur and Hermione is grateful that she can go back to thinking of divination as nothing more than the load of bollocks that it is. She's able to go back to her revising and Ron's able to go back to very pointedly not revising. It's a good system, Hermione thinks, only it will end with Ron getting straight Trolls on his O.W.L.s.

At the next DA meeting, Harry teaches them how to create patronuses. Hermione's known of the spell since third year, but she's never been able to create a corporeal patronus. She remembers what it was like, to be that close to the dementors. She never wants to feel that way again in her life and it is with this determination that Hermione finds herself pondering what Harry says that session.

"There's a muggle novel called _Peter Pan_ " he begins, standing in front of them as they sit on the cushions at the end of the Room of Requirement after their first disastrous attempt to create patronuses on their own. "And there's this scene where he's trying to get his friends to think happy thoughts. They keep suggesting happy things, but they're never quite happy enough." Harry rubs at the back of his head and Hermione rolls her eyes in Ginny's direction as Cho looks at him all doe-eyed. The pair of them are positively revolting with each other.

"So you want us to think of even happier memories," Zacharias Smith drawls. Hermione's eyes narrow and she tries not to turn around and glare at him. He's been a total prat throughout this whole process, and she knows he has designs on an O on his Defense O.W.L. and very little else. 

Harry shrugs. "If I tell you to think of something that made you happy and you think of something like flying or being with your friends, you're not thinking hard enough. It's not so much a happy feeling as it is a feeling of complete and utter elation." He pulls out his wand and turns away from them, holding his arm out so that they can see the wand motion. "Expecto Patronum," he says, and they all watch as the silvery-white stag of Harry's patronus erupts from the tip of his wand. 

"Then what did you think of?" Fred asks. 

There's a hush that falls over the room then, and Harry's shoulders seem to crumple a little bit as he relaxes his wand arm and the patronus flickers out of sight. "I thought about the photo album that Hagrid gave me my first year. It had pictures of my parents from everyone who had known them before they died." Hermione's heart breaks for him when he adds, "I had never seen so much as a photograph of them before that point."

It clicks for Hermione then, and she realizes what she's been doing wrong. She's pretty sure that it makes a lot more sense to everyone then, as they all seem to have much better luck creating a patronus afterwards.

The silvery otter that erupts from the end of her wand is troubling, because she knows that the corporeal form of a patronus has some sort of meaning to the caster. She's always thought that otters were cute, but that was about the extent of her connection to them. She watches as it dances around the room, her mind concentrating on the memory of the first time she'd seen Hogwarts. 

One by one, though, the patronuses are flickering out into silvery white mist. Hermione turns to see Harry standing by one of the door ways, speaking to what looks like Dobby. Hermione takes half a step forward, hears the absolute worst news she can imagine, and feels Ginny and Neville grab her hands and pull her towards the exit.

"Run!" Harry roars, "What are you waiting for!"

Umbridge has found them. They're going to be expelled for sure.

Hermione shakes her hand away from Ginny and points her wand at the parchment that she'd pinned to the message board with their members. She flicks her wand and whispers a liquidation charm, knowing that it can be fixed easily enough. It's all she can do before Ginny and Neville pull her from the Room of Requirement and yank her towards the sliding wall and secret staircase that will lead them three floors down near the Charms classroom. 

"FIND THEM!" she hears Umbridge's voice shriek as the sliding wall panel closes behind them. "I want them all!"

~

The subsequent days are trying for them all. Fleur very pointedly avoids answering her questions regarding the Easter Holidays (Hermione's told her that she doesn't think she can leave school with all the revising that she has to do) or Dumbledore's whereabouts. Hermione knows better than to ask again, because Fleur's obviously as aware as she is that their mail is probably being screened. If anything else, it seems like a good way to throw the ministry and their new headmistress off Dumbledore's scent.

"I cannot believe she went and created a bloody Inquisitorial Squad," Ginny mutters as she eyes the collection of Slytherins with their shiny new badges, gloating at their ability to take points at will. "As if they needed any more reason to act like they're superior."

The problem, Hermione reasons, is that the DA and the subsequent diatribe by Umbridge in Dumbledore's office - not to mention Fudge himself showing up - is the worst kept secret in school. Hermione knows that their group was mostly Gryffindors and mostly fifth years, but the repercussions are everywhere. 

She waves goodbye to Ginny after dinner and heads to meet Pansy Parkinson (and her shiny new Inquisitorial Squad badge) at the base of the base of the great staircase. Pansy is leaning against the railing, talking to Millicent Bulstrode and Daphene Greengrass. They see Hermione coming and wave to Pansy and head down to towards the dungeons. 

"Alright, Granger?" Pansy asks, not impolitely.

Hermione shrugs. "I'm just fine," she replies. "Yourself?"

Pansy waits to reply until they're up to the first floor and well out of the way of anyone who might overhear her. "This," she taps the Inquisitorial Squad badge with an annoyed huff, "Is throwing off my revising schedule. I can't go home for the Easter Hols now."

"I don't think any of the fifth years are going home," Hermione replies, opening the first bathroom door they've come to and checking to make sure that there are no crying first years, snogging fourth years, or mischief going on. "I've been so busy revising that I scarcely have time for my regular work."

"I could have sworn I heard a rumor about you putting a nasty curse on a Ravenclaw girl," Pansy comments airily two floors and six bathrooms, one alcove, and three study rooms later. 

Hermione sniffs, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"It's why Chang's not talking to Potter, isn't it?"

"Cho Chang isn't talking to Harry because Harry's got the emotional range of a tea kettle and mucked up that whole situation rather spectacularly," Hermione replies curtly. When Pansy gives her a curious look, she adds, "He told her that he wanted to talk about _them_ rather than Cedric Diggory."

The smile that slides across Pansy's face is one that she's seen before. It's the calculating sort, but also the privately amused kind. Hermione smiles slowly when Pansy peers into another alcove, "Ouch."

"Agreed," Hermione says.

The patrol is not without incident, however. Hermione is shocked to find out that that the Inquisitorial Squad can take house points. When she gets back to the dormitory she tells Harry and Ron about it and they both nod. Apparently Draco Malfoy had tried to throw his weight around with Harry on his way to occlumency lessons. 

"Snape reckons that I've got it down," Harry says shakily when Hermione ask him how his lesson went. Hermione can hear the lie in his voice (because Harry is very bad at lying to her) and she can tell by how distracted he seems for the rest of the evening that something awful must have happened during that lesson.

Still, she doesn't press him too much and writes a half-coded letter to Fleur to tell her what's happened. That should get the word to the parties that need to know, she reasons. 

On the first day of the Easter Holiday, Fleur writes back and says that nothing can be done regarding that situation due to the pig-headedness of men. Hermione rolls her eyes and smiles as Fleur continues, telling her all about the project that she's currently assigned to at Gringotts. 

She's been working with Bill and a few other coworkers whose names Hermione knows in passing on a project to identify the curses cast up on and then open this long-forgotten vault that as far as the goblins can determine has no living owner. It sounds absolutely fascinating when Fleur gets into the more intricate details of how they go about figuring out which curses might have been placed on the vault. 

Hermione writes Fleur back with more questions about the process. She really can't help herself, it sounds so interesting and there's actual science involved, rather than just the usual imprecise guesswork that seems to go into all other forms of magic other than arithmancy. 

As per their year and the upcoming slate of O.W.L.s, all fifth year student have to meet with their head of house (and apparently Professor Umbridge) to discuss possible career paths. Hermione's feeling very flustered and put-upon by the whole thing. She's only sixteen, and while she has had a tentative life plan that takes her to age thirty since she was thirteen, there are several new and mitigating factors that she has yet to truly consider. 

Hermione is plagued by this feeling of panic and takes every career pamphlet that Professor McGonagall offers the fifth-year Gryffindors and reads them through carefully. She's already decided that she wants nothing to do with the ministry, but there are other options. 

By the time her career counseling session comes around, the Tuesday of the Easter Holiday, Hermione has only three pamphlets left. She discusses the first two with Professor McGonagall, very pointedly ignoring the scratch of Professor Umbridge's quill as she takes notes. However, Hermione is not above playing to people's strengths. She takes a deep breath and turns to Professor Umbridge.

“Professor, what can you tell me about banking?” Hermione asks, smiling sweetly at Professor Umbridge. She can see Professor McGonagall’s eyes widen and then narrow. She must know that Hermione's not an idiot and wouldn't involve the interloping headmistress unless she legitimately had a question. “I have some friends who work for Gringotts International, and their lives sound terribly exciting.”

“Goblins won’t hire just anyone Ms. Granger,” Professor Umbridge replies curtly, setting down her quill. “You would have better luck trying to find a husband and settling down.”

The noise that Professor McGonagall makes is rather alarming and she hides it in a cough hurriedly. Both Hermione and Professor Umbridge look at her sharply and Hermione sees a look of pure rage behind Professor McGonagall’s rectangular spectacles. 

“That would be rather hard for me to do,” Hermione confesses matter-of-factly, “as I don’t much care for men.”

Professor McGonagall coughs again and Hermione turns to her, “Do you need a glass of water, professor?” She can see the amusement in Professor McGonagall's eyes now and she has to struggle to keep her face perfectly straight. 

“No, Ms. Granger, I’m quite alright,” Professor McGonagall replies with a small smile. “Have you considered a career in academia? You would make a very good professor.”

It was Professor Umbridge’s turn to make a coughing noise, but Hermione followed Professor McGonagall’s lead and did not acknowledge it. “I would probably have to get an apprenticeship or go to university on the continent if I did that, right?”

“There are some wizarding companies and governmental organizations that will help to arrange further study as well. Isn’t Ms. Delacour doing something like that at Gringotts?”

Nodding, Hermione replies, “Yes. She’s following a similar study pattern as Bill Weasley did. Curses, Ancient Runes, and Spell Creation – I think.” She’s playing it up for Professor Umbridge, but she can tell that the toad-like woman’s gaze is fixated on her neck.

 _Oh no,_ Hermione thinks, trying to force herself not to move and adjust the necklace that’s clearly fallen out from underneath the school sweater that she’s wearing. She takes a deep breath and tries to force herself not look at Professor Umbridge at all, focusing her attention on Professor McGonagall.

“Perhaps,” Professor McGonagall says slowly, “You should consider asking either Mr. Weasley or Ms. Delacour more about their chosen career paths.”

“I’ll do that,” Hermione nods, getting up to leave.

As she thanks Professor McGonagall for her help and heads to the door, Hermione can hear a chair scrape behind her. She swallows and takes exactly three steps down the corridor before she hears Professor Umbridge’s, “Hem, Hem.”

"Yes, Professor?" Hermione tries not to let her voice shake, but the panic is already rising up inside of her.  
Umbridge draws herself level with Hermione and again fixates her beady gaze on Hermione's necklace. "Ms. Granger, could you please tell me the origins of your necklace?"

Hermione reaches up and tucks it back under her shirt. "I don't see why that's any of your business, professor. It was a gift."

"From your veela friend?"

Hermione doesn't see the point of lying, they're fairly well-know, after all. "Yes."

"I see. Ms. Granger, you are at the top of your class, are you not?" 

Hermione nods, but clarifies because modesty is a virtue that she thinks someone like Professor Umbridge might actually appreciate. It’s a gamble. "It's usually a toss-up between myself and Terry Boot." _And Draco Malfoy_ she thinks but does not add that fact because any and all reminder that Draco Malfoy has a higher mark than her in potions class will send Hermione into a mood that she doesn't think she should be in around a person as irritating as Professor Umbridge.

"Then you will know that you should not accept jewelry from a veela," Umbridge is speaking slowly, like she's somehow mentally defective or slow. Hermione scowls.

"I'm sorry, Professor?"

Umbridge smiles almost sympathetically at her. Hermione wants to slap her. "I was perfectly clear, dear. You should not accept jewelry from veela." She shakes her head and adds, “To do carries implications that one such as yourself should know very well.”

Hermione can’t help herself, “I am well aware of the implications, thank you.” She straightens, adjusting her too-heavy bag on her shoulder. “It was covered at the beginning of the year in Care of Magical Creatures class, as well as touched upon in third year defense.”

Umbridge’s eyes seem to bug even more out of her squished face than before and she stares at Hermione with narrowed eyes for a moment before relenting. “Knowing the implications are one thing, but you cannot possibly be considering – your friend is not _human_.”

She knows better than to walk away from a professor, she really does, but she cannot help herself. She can’t proclaim her love of Fleur to Delores Umbridge of all people. It’s an invasion of privacy, not to mention completely unrelated to her course of study. She pauses, thinking for a minute. “Professor, while your career advice was very helpful, my decisions are my own.”

“Naturally, Ms. Granger,” Professor Umbridge says in her most simpering of tones. "I am merely concerned, as I'm sure all the professors here at Hogwarts are, for your well-being. Involvement with such magical creatures is quite dangerous for humans." Umbridge looks away before adding the dagger that sends Hermione's temper flying off the handle. "Especially those, like yourself, who grew up in _disadvantaged_ homes."

"Delores?" Professor McGonagall's voice cuts Hermione's retort off, and both she and Professor Umbridge turn as one. Parvati Patil is standing by Professor McGonagall's elbow, peering out from her office. "We still have five more appointments."

Hermione mouths 'thank you' at Parvati for prompting the rescue and hurries up the hall before Umbridge can reply. Her face is a dark cloud of violent emotion and she marches her way up to one of the seldom-used six-floor study rooms. She slams the door closed behind her, turns her wand towards the table and puts all of her energy into the strongest blasting charm she knows. She's thinking of the smug look on Umbridge's face and the utter contempt that was there.

The table erupts into wooden splinters and Hermione lets out a frustrated sob. She hates what's happening to this place and she hates that she is powerless to stop Umbridge.

~

When Hermione finds out that it was _Harry_ had financed Fred and George’s year of trouble making and subsequent departure from Hogwarts, she doesn’t know whether to be impressed that he’s got enough business sense to invest in such a promising start up, or scream because he’s a bloody idiot for giving them money. Regardless, things are a lot more chaotic now that Fred and George have left the school. Lee Jordan seems rather lost and has taken to spending long hours by himself in the library, studying for his exams, but it’s everyone else that Hermione has to worry about. Fred and George have left a void in their wake, and all number of students are trying to fill the role that they have left.

Harry is, naturally, avoiding any and all urging from Hermione to attempt to speak to Professor Snape regarding his occlumency lessons, and Ron has said that he’s still thrashing about and talking in his sleep. Only he’s apparently mastered a silencing charm, so Ron only happened to notice when he got up late two nights ago to get a drink.

It’s really troubling to Hermione, because she’s got this terrible theory that Harry _doesn’t_ want the dreams to stop after what happened to Mr. Weasley at Christmas and now with the snippets of information he is able to glean from his dreams. It’s a terrible idea and Hermione hates that she can’t seem to talk him out of doing it.

They’re at the final quidditch match of the season, Hermione would rather be revising, but Harry’s been so down about his ban all year that Hermione knows she has to go and provide moral support. Ginny’s been a pretty good replacement for him at Seeker, and Ron’s actually not that bad as a keeper. Still, it’s a complete surprise when Hagrid, who’s been avoiding them for what seems like months now, seeks them out. He has two black eyes and a very worried look on his face as he speaks in low tones to Harry. Hermione follows Harry out of the stands, all thoughts of the game forgotten as she hears Harry ask Hagrid what’s going on.

Hagrid shoulders his crossbow and leads them deep into the forest, distractedly talking about how Umbridge wants to sack him. Hermione is very, very worried because all of her ventures into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid up to this point have been unarmed and fairly peaceful. She’s never seen him look like this, and when Hagrid introduces Harry and her to a young giant who is apparently Hagrid’s half-brother, Hermione’s stomach tilts in a funny way that makes her want to vomit.

This is bad, this is so beyond bad it’s worse than Norbert or the Skrewts, both of which are saying something. Harry’s clutching Hermione’s hand so tightly as they’re introduced that Hermione thinks he’s going to break her fingers. She’s not doing much better and Hagrid really doesn’t seem to be getting the fact that this is a _horrible_ idea.

To further complicate things, apparently Hagrid has started some sort of feud with the centaurs who live in the forest over the safety of Firenze, who Hermione is still not at all attracted to, thank you very much. She and Harry cling to each other as they stand between Hagrid and a group of angry centaurs, with a young giant off to the side to make matters even worse.

This is, by far, one of the worst days at Hogwarts that she can ever remember.

Hagrid hurries them along a few minutes later, after making them promise that they’ll help teach Grawp English if he gets sacked. Hermione waits until they’re out of Hagrid’s earshot and surrounded by a group of second year Hufflepuff girls before she starts.

“I don’t believe him,” she mutters, her voice shaking. “I don’t believe him. I really, _really_ don’t believe him.”

Harry pats her on the back and whispers. “Shhh, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Hermione’s hands are clenched into fists. “A giant. A great bloody giant in the forest. And we’re supposed to just, what? Go down there whenever we please and give him English lessons? This, naturally, is assuming that we can get past the herd of murderous centaurs on our way in and out! I – do – not...” she finishes with a frustrated noise that causes one of the Hufflepuff girls to turn and look at her sharply.  
Hermione gives her a dirty look for eavesdropping on a prefect.

“We haven’t got to do anything now – just if he gets sacked and that might not even happen, Hermione,” Harry hisses quietly so that the Hufflepuff girls won’t overhear.

Hermione stops, eyes narrowed and angry. “Oh come off it,” she says angrily. “Of course he’s going to be chucked out and, really, to be totally honest, why can even blame Umbridge?”

The glare that Harry fixes on her is enough to make her want to scream and cry and rage against everything that’s stacking up against them right now. She lets him lead her back to the Gryffindor common room, all the while asking him why Hagrid makes life so difficult on himself and for them.

And apparently Ron somehow managed to win them the Quidditch Cup.

Hermione straightens her jacket and glances at Harry, “let him have his moment in the sun?”

“I’m in no hurry to tell ‘im,” Harry replies as they join the throng of jubilant Gryffindors.

As they set into revising more completely for O.W.L.s, Hermione writes Fleur to ask her to please write to her former headmistress to tell Hagrid that he’s an idiot. Fleur’s owl comes back the same day demanding far more of an explanation than Hermione had given, and Hermione writes out a longer reply explaining the situation. It is now nearing June and Hermione is starting to panic about exams and the added stress of Hagrid is doing very little for her ability to concentrate on memorizing all little details that she’s let slip from her mind over the years. 

Harry and Ron seem to have finally come around the idea that these exams are very real, are coming up very soon, and will almost certainly decide their entire futures. Hermione is grateful that the professors, at least, have come to the same conclusion that she has. Even Professor Umbridge, who is steadfastly determined to not teach them anything practical has gone back to third and fourth year defense and is reviewing all of the common subjects on their exams. Hermione wonders if this is because she knows that if the entirety of the fifth year students do poorly on their Defense O.W.L. parents (not to mention the school governors) are more likely to blame the teacher rather than the students. 

Fleur sends her daily notes of encouragement and Hermione does her absolute best to not take her stress out on Fleur, Harry, Ron or anyone else who happens to attempt to talk to her during her precious study time. 

Hermione feels confident about Charms and Transfiguration. They've always been her best subjects. She spends more time revising for Ancient Runes and Potions than she probably should and tries to not think about her last two exams. Arithmancy and History of Magic on the same day. What cruel fate that was. The Astronomy practical was that night. She groans as she looks at the exam schedule that she's copied down into her homework planner. It just all seems so hopeless and she's completely and utterly convinced that she's going to fail at least one exam.

Ginny reminds her to eat with a quiet smile and sits next to her on the couch as she does practice arithmancy problems out of the back of Angelina Johnson's seventh year text. It's not the best plan she's ever had, but at least she's feeling a lot more confident about the technical portion of that exam.

She misses studying with Fleur last year. Fleur always knew what questions to ask to draw the answers from where they'd all become muddled at the back of Hermione's mind. 

Revising turns into examinations and Hermione feels as though her heart is about to beat its way out of her stomach as she writes out incantations and wand motions - demonstrates her skill with Transfiguration and brews one entirely-too-simple potion for that particular practical. 

After her Ancient Runes exam, Hermione cannot help herself. She's agreed with Harry and Ron that they're not going to talk about the exams once they happen, but Hermione's gone and made a _stupid_ first year mistake and she's worried that it might have doomed her entire translation to be one letter off. 

"Hermione we agreed," Harry says, putting his hand on her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and prepares to reply before Harry cuts her off, "besides, we've only got the astronomy practical and History of Magic left."

"I still have _Arithmancy,_ " she laments, leaning against Ron as Harry pats her awkwardly on the shoulder. "And it's the hardest subject of all."

Ron sighs, "You were doing problems out of Angelina's text book, Hermione. That's the N.E.W.T. text; I think you'll be alright."

But Hermione doesn't feel alright. She's panicking in a way that she hasn't since she realized what was lurking inside the school walls second year. Not even a hundred dementors were as scary as the very idea of three exams in one day, one of which she still felt woefully underprepared for.

She retreats to the library and tries not look to wistfully as the rest of the school files out onto the grounds to enjoy the beautiful day. 

She hasn't told Harry and Ron yet, because she's not quite sure how to. Her parents have written her to tell her that she's going to need to go to Ron's parents’ house for the first six weeks of their nine week summer holiday because they're going to be out of the country. Hermione hates that they can just drop that sort of a bomb on her while she's trying to study for exams. 

It's easy to understand, to an extent, anyway. She’s been doing it to them for years, this is probably some sort of karmic retribution. All she can be is grateful that they didn't object to Hermione accepting Fleur's promise and they invited both of them to come to the house once they were pack in England sometime in August.  
On the morning of her Arithmancy exam, Hermione gets a letter from Fleur. She pushes her cornflakes around in her bowl forlornly for a moment before she decides that putting off reading the letter is probably not the best plan.

Harry and Ron are reviewing Divination notes (not that there is anything actually _academic_ that happens in that class) across from her while Ginny reads the newspaper. She supposes that this is the one quiet moment she'll get all day, and slides her finger under the wax seal.

_Mon amour-_

_The situation that you've described sounds dire indeed. I understand your concern for M. Hagrid, but you must tread extremely carefully in such a situation. Giants and veela are from the same part of the world and there has always been bad blood between them. Even if this giant is young, there is sure to be some traces of me on you, which could send him into a rage. Please, Hermione, be careful and stay away from such a creature if you can. No friendship or obligation is worth risking yourself so foolishly._

_I know that you have your arithmancy exam today, and I know you will do well. Please try and remember to breath, they are only exams, and you are sure to pass them with flying colors._

Fleur's written a few more lines in French and when Hermione sounds them out quietly to herself she feels her ears color. She knows exactly what Fleur's saying and her spirits lift for what feels like the first time in days.

"Red's lovely on you," Ginny comments with an evil twinkle in her eyes as she reaches around Hermione for the pumpkin juice.

"Oh shut up."

Hermione is sure that she's going to get a Dreadful on her Astronomy practical because they sacked Hagrid right in the middle of it. Everyone's a bit shell-shocked that it actually happened (and that Umbridge waited until the final two weeks of term to do it) and Hermione can't believe that they were allowed extra time because of the commotion. She was absolutely positive that she'd misidentified one of the stars on her chart.

Their last exam is History of Magic and somewhere in the middle of it, Harry has a sort of fit that leaves him shaking and terrified and desperate to speak to Professor McGongall since Dumbledore is gone. He tells Hermione and Ron in hushed tones just outside the Great Hall that he's absolutely positive that Voldemort has Sirius and is holding him in the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione tries not to object too loudly to the fact that this is so obviously a trap that even the usually obtuse Harry should see it. It's not good enough, and Harry yells his opinion loudly for anyone who wants to hear as they storm up to the Gryffindor Common Room. Harry wants to try and break into Umbridge's office to use her Floo to try and call Sirius to make sure that he's alright.

And now Harry's desperate to go and rescue Sirius from his nightmare, Voldemort and all the way back in London. Hermione bites her lip and nods curtly as Harry presents his arguments to her. She hates that she can't talk him out of this, because this is borderline suicidal, even for Harry.

~

Hermione has had many brilliant plans; this is not one of them. She’s told Umbridge that they’re building a weapon to help Dumbledore in the Forbidden Forrest, where Hagrid’s brother is hiding. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but knows that Umbridge may actually try to use an unforgiveable on her if she does not execute this exactly as planned.

Also she really doesn’t have a plan, so there is that too.

Umbridge insists on leaving the others in the arms of the Inquisitorial Squad (and Professor Snape who, if he knows what is good for him, is attempting to figure out if Sirius Black truly is in mortal peril). She leads Harry and Hermione at wand point out towards the Forbidden Forest, all the while cackling with glee. Hermione hates her so, so much. Umbridge is demanding to know if the secret weapon is in Hagrid’s hut.

“Of course not,” Hermione replies scathingly. She’s not above criticism of Hagrid because of his poor decision making skills and questionable definition of the word ‘adorable.’ It’s easy to put all of her emotions regarding that situation and force them forward as ire. She knows that that will keep Umbridge interested and not seeing through their bluff. “Hagrid might’ve set it off accidentally.”

Harry looks at Hermione sharply when she says this, but Hermione just turns her nose up and stops at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She really doesn’t want to walk into a place like that unarmed, but they really have no other choice. 

“Yes,” Umbridge says excitedly, her eyes bugging out a little in the wand light. “He would do something stupid like that, the great half-breed oaf.” She laughs after this and Hermione can see Harry’s jaw clenched tightly and his throat bob ominously. Her own temper has spiked, because Umbridge’s prejudices are so completely outlandish that it’s positively ghastly. She reaches forward and points to the forest when Umbridge asks where the weapon is once more.

They’re made to go first, walking behind Umbridge with no wands and Hermione is starting to feel very worried. She’s not sure if she should take Umbridge to Grawp or try and get her to intercept the mob of angry centaurs that are sure to be waiting for them. Thinking that Grawp’s presence might actually prove useful at some point not right now, Hermione changes course and speaks as loudly as she can to Harry and Umbridge, telling them it’s just a bit further.

“I’m really sorry,” she adds to Umbridge a few minutes of walking later. “I know we’re going the right way, I’ve just never done it when it was this… _dark_.” She wiggles her shoulders a little bit, trying to make it look like she’s far more uncomfortable than she is.

Umbridge trips over an exposed root a few minutes later and Harry hurries to catch up with Hermione, neither of them wants to help her up. “Look, Hermione,” Harry whispers, “You got to keep your voice down, we could be _heard_.”

“That’s what I want,” Hermione replies with an almost wicked smile. “You’ll see.”

It isn’t long before the arrows start to fly and Hermione finds herself grinning triumphantly at the realization growing on Harry’s face. “You’re mental,” he whispers as a loud, booming voice echoes through the clearing.

“Who are you?” It is one of the centaurs who had spoken with Hagrid about Grawp, the one who had threatened Hagrid, Harry and Hermione all that day that seems so long ago now. Hermione glances to see that Umbridge trembling, her wand still raised. “I asked who you are, human.”

“I am Delores Umbridge,” she says in this terrified sounding voice that does not instill any confidence at all in Hermione. She reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand, willing him to understand that if they have to run, they have to run together. “Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic and Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts!”

The centaurs don’t seem at all impressed with the collection of titles. She's about to open her mouth to further goad Umbridge, eyes trained on the first centaur's scowl, when Hermione sees Umbridge fall right into the trap she’d hoped for. 

"You are from the Ministry of Magic?" The centaur questions and Umbridge seems to tremble under the weight of his skepticism.

Umbridge nods and squares herself fully. "Careful, half-breed," she says, her voice growing stronger with every second. Hermione has half a mind to tackle her like a rugby player and take away her wand before she gets them all killed. 

"Don't call them that!" Hermione says, fury creeping into her voice. She's heard Umbridge use the term for Hagrid, and she's implied it when speaking about Fleur. This is far, far worse. Centaurs are not half-bread humans, they are truly their own species, and anyone who had read any book _ever_ knew that. It was first year subject material for Merlin's sake!

Umbridge doesn't appear to hear Hermione's objection and Harry's fingers tighten around her hand. They're going to die here, with Sirius still in need of rescuing. She swallows and wishes she could see Fleur one last time. "Law Fifteen "B" states clearly that "any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence, and therefore considered responsible for its actions —"

"Oh, she is bloody insane," Harry mutters and Hermione is inclined to agree.

The ensuing chaos ends with the centaurs chasing Umbridge off deeper into the forest. Two of the centaurs linger, and Hermione swallows, watching them nervously. Their wands are both still in Umbridge's office and there's absolutely no way that they can protect themselves other than running. 

"We do not harm foals," one of the centaurs is saying. 

The other seems to disagree and Hermione feels Harry's hand grip her own more tightly.

"But this one is veela touched," The first replies and Hermione tries to think if there were any instances of anything other than peaceful relations between the two races. She can't recall anything, but Harry's hand is cutting off the circulation to her own and she's shaking she's so scared. "And this one is nearing manhood."

"Please," Hermione says, struggling to keep her voice steady. "We meant no offense. We are unarmed, forced here by," and she shudders despite herself, "that horrible woman. We mean you no harm and do not wish to intrude on your territory."

Harry nods his agreement and holds up his hands, open and wandless. It is a gesture that they’ve both been taught, growing up in the muggle world. It means surrender. Hermione slowly does the same and hopes against hope that it translates as the same thing into wizarding customs. 

The centaur regards Hermione with pale blue eyes that remind Hermione of Fleur's. He stares at her long and hard, before he lowers his crossbow. "Follow the steam to the edge of the forest, girl, do not linger."

They don't. Harry nods his thanks and Hermione forces herself to smile and they high-tail it out of the clearing and the forest proper as fast as they can possibly go. 

Ron and the others are waiting with their wands on the edge of the forest with grim expressions on their faces. Snape didn't come back, he explains, and the Inquisitorial Squad is pants at dueling. 

Her heart thudding in her chest, Hermione turns to Harry. He's got that determined look on his face that says quite clearly that he already knows what he wants to. She swallows and nods her agreement. They have to rescue Sirius if Snape didn't return. There's simply no other way around it.

~

"'ou are an imbicile," Fleur hisses angrily as she presses the tip of her wand to the cut on Hermione's neck that Bellatrix LeStrange's knife had left. Hermione hadn't even known how badly she was bleeding, but she can tell by the furious look in Fleur's eyes that the anger isn't entirely directed at her. The skin tickles as it knits back together.

Bill and Remus Lupin are seeing to Neville, Ginny and Luna. Ron's sitting off in a corner talking to his mother and Harry has gone off with Dumbledore. Hermione knows that this was a foolish venture.

And now Sirius Black is dead.

Hermione looks away, unable to face the rage that's just barely contained in Fleur's eyes. "I know," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

Fleur pulls her into a hug so tight that Hermione thinks her ribs might actually be broken from the fall she took trying to get away from the Death Eaters they encountered in the Department of Mysteries. Fleur is muttering in rapid-fire French and she smells of magic and ash. 

She smells of a battlefield, Hermione realizes, and she thinks that she's going to be sick. 

"Fleur," she whispers, holding on to Fleur as tightly as Fleur is holding her. She doesn't want to let go, she's still shaking and she can still feel Bellatrix's breath on her neck. "I - I couldn't let them go alone."

"'ou should not 'ave gone at all," Fleur replies and Hermione glances over to see Remus Lupin collapse into a chair, hands over his face. There are tears there and Hermione heart seizes when she realizes that he has lost his best friend three times over now. Sirius and Remus were always close, and Hermione's fingers grab handfuls of the back of Fleur's over robe and she's crying.

She sobs into Fleur's shoulder for what feels like hours, wondering why this had even happened. Voldemort had wanted a prophecy, a stupid prophecy that probably was only true because he chose to believe it. Sirius is dead. Dead like Cedric only with no body to prove it. He simply vanished into the great beyond.

Hermione's jaw hardens. She is going to do everything she possibly can think of make this stop. No one this young should have to experience loss like this.

Bill comes over and places a hand on Hermione's back. "Hermione," he says quietly, squatting down so that she can see his friendly, freckled face through the curtain of Fleur's white-blonde hair. "How did you get to London?"

"Thestrals..." Luna says, picking at the bandages that are wrapped around both of her forearms. She looks up at Fleur then and Hermione is struck by the similarities in their features. While Fleur is all gracefully sculpted lines, Luna appears freer in her appearance, her cheeks still clinging to the roundness of youth. "I suppose we'll all be able to see them now."

Bill runs a hand through his hair and nods, grim-faced. "I suppose so," he agrees. He pushes himself up to his feet. "I'd better owl around and make sure that they're collected and taken back to the school."

Fleur nods and they all look to Lupin. "Zey 'ave to go back to 'ogwarts, tonight," she says and Hermione realizes that that is the absolute last thing that she wants.

Mrs. Weasley bustles forward and pulls a jar of floo powder out of one of the kitchen cabinets. She sets it on the table and pulls Ron and Ginny close in the tightest hug she can possibly manage. Hermione tries not to think of how her own mother would react to such events – such stupid, foolish, woefully miss-informed events. 

"Go to the hospital wing," Mrs. Weasley says quietly. "Madam Pomphrey will want to see all of you."  
Ron and Ginny vanish into the fire, and Neville and Luna follow them. Hermione doesn't move, not wanting to leave Fleur's embrace. She can't stop shaking. 

"'ermione," Fleur whispers, pressing her lips to Hermione's temple. "'ou 'ave to go back as well."

She can't find the words to say that she doesn't want to go back, that she doesn't feel right just _leaving_ Lupin and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix to clean up the mess that they've so carelessly made. She swallows and gets to her feet. 

Her shirt is stained with blood and she can see that it's all over Fleur as well. She swallows and steps towards the fireplace, eyes never leaving Fleur. "I-" she starts, fingers mixing in the floo powder. She doesn't want to say this in front of Mrs. Weasley, Bill or Remus. It doesn't seem the place. 

"Chèrie, I know," Fleur says quietly. She crosses the kitchen and presses her lips to Hermione's temple. "It will be alright. It is not forever."

Term ends in four days’ time. There will be plenty of time to explain what happened then. 

Nodding, Hermione throws the floo powder into the fire and states clearly, "Hospital Wing, Hogwarts."

The last thing she sees is Fleur's face as she spins out of eyesight and into blackness.

~

They are not punished for their late-night flight from Hogwarts, Dumbledore seems to think that what happened to them all is punishment enough. Harry retreats into himself and Hermione wants to be there for him, but there really are no words to describe what he's lost. She tries to imagine what it would be like to lose her parents and she simply cannot. They're not close, they've never really been close, but she still doesn't know what she'd do without them.

She sits with him, though, and makes sure that he never has to be alone. He hasn't talked much to any of them. Luna's had the best luck of all of them, taking him out to feed the thestral heard with her during their long periods of free time as they wait for the rest of the school to sit their exams so that they can go home.

"Reckon he'll be okay?" Ron asks as she watches Harry make his way down to the forest's edge with Luna their final night at Hogwarts. 

Hermione puts her hands in her pockets and bites her lip. It's been overcast and drizzly all day and the wind has a chill in it that doesn't quite seem natural for the month of June. It's a bad omen and Hermione doesn't even believe in such things. "I don't know," she says honestly.

Ron turns to stare at her. His face is drawn and worried looking. "Everything's going to change now, isn't it?"

Hermione looks down at her feet. "We're hardly innocent anymore, are we?"

His jaw clenches at that pronouncement and he looks away and out over the lake. "Are you coming home with me and Gin this summer?"

She closes her eyes and shrugs. It had completely slipped her mind that she was going to need a place to stay. She hopes that Mrs. Weasley won’t feel too put out having to take her in. Hermione supposes that she pulls her own weight well and with Fred and George out of the house now, there will be a lot less for Mrs. Weasley to manage. "I'd imagine so. My parents are out of town until the third week in August." 

"I jus' thought," He begins, and then rubs the back of his neck, cheeks coloring. "What with Fleur and all..."

Hermione's smile is tight-lipped. "I think she's mad at me right now." She’s sure that Mrs. Weasley would never allow such a thing to happen. She recalls only too-well how everyone was so concerned over her last summer. 

And Ron doesn't say anything because there is nothing to say after that. Everything is changing already. It's never going to be the same again.

~

It isn’t until she steps off of the Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross Station that Hermione realizes that she has no idea where she’s going this summer. Her parents had written regarding their summer plans when she’d been so caught up in revising for O.W.L.s that arranging a place to stay had completely slipped her mind. She bites her lip and follows Ron and Harry off of the train, pausing to help a first year whose trunk is stuck. She has no idea what she’s going to do if she can’t go with the Weasleys. She’s sure that Fleur won’t mind, but to impose, especially with Fleur being rather annoyed with her at the moment, seems rather rude.

Mad-Eye Moody and Tonks, as well as a sad and drawn-looking Professor Lupin are there to meet them when they get off the train. They're waiting with the Weasleys just off the platform. To Hermione's great shock, she can see Harry's aunt, uncle and cousin standing there as well, casting nervous glances around and jumping at small noises. 

He gives Hermione a tight hug and shakes Ron's hand before he goes to meet them, his expression closed off and sad. Hermione can see Lupin's fingers linger on his shoulder longer than is absolutely necessary and she can tell that Harry's grateful by the way he seems to relax, just a little bit.

Harry's family are truly dreadful people, and she can't resist smiling a little bit as she promises Harry that they won't be quite so vague in their letters this summer. Mad-Eye and Tonks are giving the Dursleys a hard time and Hermione's not quite able to hide her grin as she smiles welcomingly at Ron's family. It's only after Harry leaves that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley come forward and give Ron and Ginny uneasy hugs.

Hermione stands with her bag slung over her shoulder and her trunk at her feet, wondering who is coming to get her. She and Fleur haven't talked about this. There simply wasn't time after her parents’ letter.

"Bill and Fleur are coming to collect you," Mrs. Weasley says with a small smile as she casts easy feather-light charms on Ron and Ginny's trunks. She glances at the clock that's proclaiming it to be five-fifteen in the afternoon. "They should be along shortly." Hermione smiles her thanks and Mrs. Weasley adds, "You are, of course, always welcome. Your parents wrote me about their situation this summer but they'd apparently spoken to Fleur already. You're just so young for that..."

Blinking in the bright June sunlight, Hermione realizes that maybe her parents haven't actually abandoned her at all. Instead, they've set her up for what might be the best summers ever. Mrs. Weasley's disapproval doesn't even bother her as glances around and sees Bill and Fleur cutting through the crowd. They're wearing Gringotts jackets, which Fleur's letters have explained that they've been down in the in the vaults all day. Fleur's got a streak of some sort of muck down one of her sleeves but she looks a lot happier than she was a few days ago.

Hermione raises her hand and waves enthusiastically. Fleur's cutting through the still-lingering throng of students and parents and Hermione knows that she's drawing some stares. She can see Pansy Parkinson toss her hair and turn her nose up in the air and say something that makes the group of people around her laugh loudly.

"Hello," Hermione says as Fleur grins brightly at her. "Have you been down in the vault today?"

"Ah, oui," Fleur says, and she's pulling Hermione into a tight hug, mucky jacket and all. Hermione breathes in the smell of her. She smells like Hermione's parents basement today, mixed with the scent that is truly uniquely Fleur. Hermione pulls back just enough so that she can go up on her toes and kiss Fleur properly, long and languid, not caring who sees. After Fleur pulls away, Hermione can see Ginny rolling her eyes and the bright red of Ron's ears over Fleur's shoulder.

"I 'ave missed 'ou," Fleur whispers into Hermione's hair and Hermione hugs her tighter.

Bill flicks his wand and in a rather impressive show of non-verbal magic shrinks and renews the feather-light charm that Hermione cast on her trunk before they left Hogwarts. He picks it up and tucks the brick-sized trunk into his pocket. "We'd best get going, yeah?"

"Where are we going?" Hermione asks as Fleur pulls away and tangles their fingers together with a distant sort of smile. She's got on heavy boots that match Bill's and looks far more rugged than Hermione's ever seen it. Hermione decides that she likes the look quite a bit and bites her lip, distracted by the glare that Pansy Parkinson is giving her.

Fleur tosses her hair over her shoulder and grins brightly at Hermione. "Chez moi," she replies dramatically with a wave of her free hand. Bill just shakes his head.

Hermione wishes that she had had more time to talk to Fleur before, but there was so much else going on at that moment that she felt as though it would have been improper to bring it up. The letter from her parents had fallen by the wayside of her exams and the situation with Hagrid, Umbridge, and Hagrid's poor decisions. She nods slowly as Fleur leads her off of Platform 9 3/4 and out into the bright sunlight of muggle London.

"Sorry I didn't tell you about that sooner," Hermione mutters as Fleur fiddles with her Gringtotts jacket and tucks her wand back up her sleeve. Her cheeks are burning because she honestly had forgotten, and now she just feels like a prat for not telling Fleur sooner.

Fleur's fingers squeeze her hand tightly as they draw Hermione out of the train station behind her. "'ermione, 'our parents, zey do know 'ow 'ou are. Zey wrote me in Avril, zinking zat 'ou would forget," Fleur smiles then, and Hermione's heart does a little flip flop. "What wiz ze examens et everzing else zat 'ou 'ad on your plate zis term..." Fleur glances back at Hermione and her expression turns down a bit. "I am sorry zat I did not zink to write 'ou and tell 'ou."

"It's my fault as well," Hermione replies. "I was just so busy with revising and trying to keep Harry from getting expelled and then Hagrid's brother..."

Fleur laughs and Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "As I said, zere was a lot on 'our mind."

They take the muggle underground to the heart of London. Hermione reads the street signs and realizes that they're actually pretty close to where the Ministry of Magic is located, not to mention that Diagon Alley is just a few blocks up. Fleur seems shockingly at ease on the underground and they both laugh as Bill gets caught in the turnstile and nearly has to pay the fare twice because he got stuck. 

"Zis is why I do not let 'im come 'ere alone," Fleur explains as Hermione runs to get an attendant to help get Bill through the turnstile without having to pay twice. 

"Thanks," He says, ears as red as his hair when the attendant overrides the lock and lets him go through. "Got a bit... tangled there."

"See that it doesn't happen again," the attendant replies curtly before retreating into his little booth.

Hermione can barely contain the mounting excitement she feels when she thinks about the prospect of spending at least a few weeks of the summer with Fleur and Fleur alone. Fleur's written her extensively about her flat, now that she's finally established enough at Gringotts to take out a line of credit and sign a lease. 

There are several wizarding neighborhoods scattered around London, Hermione's heard stories about them from her classmates who live in the city. They're spread out, carefully masked, but they're there if you know where to look. Fleur leads them down a side alley and then suddenly steps sideways into the wall of what appears to a fenced-in courtyard. Hermione follows with a quick glance around and tumbles through the illusion of a wall and into a bustling city street.

"Wicked," she mutters to herself as Fleur turns to smile brightly at her. 

There are shops lining the streets, but it's not chaotic like it is on Diagon Alley. There's a grocer and a bakery - a few restaurants and a few nicer robe shops. It's a nice neighborhood, spotted with bookstores and the odd coffee stop. The people who walk the streets here are young, not the older sort that tend to frequent Diagon Alley; they smile at Fleur and Bill, shouting greetings at friends.

"Bienvenue," Fleur says, heading towards a wrought iron gate half-hidden by a flowering bush that Hermione can't identify. 

_This place is brilliant,_ Hermione thinks as she hurries after Fleur down a cobblestone walkway between a bookstore that has a display that's already drawing Hermione's attention and a cafe that appears to double as a pub. 

In her letters, Fleur had explained her selection process of this particular neighborhood as been fairly straightforward. She needed an inexpensive place to live, and this flat happened to fit those needs. While she said that did not mind Mrs. Weasley's offer of a place at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place for as long as she needed, Fleur was proud and did want to make her own way. It is apparently a tradition of some sort in her family to strike it out on one's own after school.

Bill, it turns out, lives two doors down from Fleur. He's got a live-in girlfriend who works at the ministry in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's an auror-in-training and seems rather interesting, if a bit too serious for Hermione's taste. He hands over Hermione's shrunken trunk at what he tells Hermione is his door and heads inside, leaving Hermione alone with Fleur for the first time.

Fleur's flat is on the third floor. It has wide, sunny windows that overlook the street below and a a balcony that offers a raised garden bed where Fleur's planted all manner of potions ingredients. Hermione peers down at the murtlap plant that she remembers from all the times that they’ve needed it this year and sighs. She already misses Hogwarts, despite the fact that she’s been given a great gift in this summer. 

"Did they ever find Professor Umbridge?" she asks as Fleur enlarges her trunk and levitates it into what Hermione can only assume is the bedroom. 

"Ah," Fleur's laugh is high and arching. Like the birds singing outside but somehow with more body. Hermione swallows the comparison before it starts. "Zey did, but I do not want to talk about zat 'orrible woman..."  
She's leaning against the doorframe, her hair falling around her shoulders and her jacket discarded. Hermione can see that she's wearing a simple shirt to go with her practical pants and boots and she swallows, thinking about what is underneath it. 

Pulling her bag off of her shoulder and setting it on the sofa, Hermione steps towards Fleur. She can feel a smile pulling at the corners of her cheeks and as Fleur’s hands settle on her shoulders, Hermione feels herself finally exhale the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She is home now. 

Fleur’s kissing her then, lips hot and heavy and so full of desperation that Hermione can scarcely think of much else. Her fingers are skirting at the bottom of Fleur’s shirt touching the warm skin that’s just hidden underneath. It feels like it has been forever since they’ve done this and Hermione wants to commit each moment to memory. 

Fleur’s fingers tangle in Hermione’s hair, holding her close. Her tongue and lips are teasing at Hermione’s lips, begging entrance in that desperate sort of way that makes Hermione weak at her knees and wanting almost instantly. Hermione almost wants to give in, to let Fleur have her way and take what is offered, but she knows that that is not want she truly needs.

Her lips and tongue do battle with Fleur’s as Hermione pushes her back into the bedroom. She barely had time to look around at the neatly made bed and sparse accommodations of a wardrobe and dresser, both in plain light wood; before she’s backed Fleur up against the bed. 

“’ermione,” Fleur says, and her voice is heavy with implication and passion. It pours from her lips like the fine wines that the Romans wrote about in their epics and tastes like everything Hermione has come to love about Fleur. She had been right, all those months ago now, when she had told Hermione that French was the language of passion. It sounds like all that Hermione is feeling on Fleur’s lips, full and rich and beautiful.  
Hermione pushes her backwards, lips pressed against Fleur’s neck. She lingers there, longer than she should as Fleur is an adult with a job working with humorless goblins. She doesn’t care though, because this is about reclaiming what has been so absent in her life. Fleur brought this out of her, when she’d posed a theory to Hermione that Hermione could not prove wrong. Fleur had seen something in her in that moment, something that Hermione had yet to realize about herself.

This is about saying thank you, and as Hermione pulls Fleur’s shirt up and over her head she knows that it’s about a lot more than that too. She worries at the mark she’s left on Fleur’s neck, the necklace that she’s yet to take off trails down Fleur’s pale skin, blazing a path that Hermione’s lips are quick to follow. She pushes Fleur’s bra out of the way and her fingers dance across Fleur’s breasts. She’s missed this, oh god, how she’s missed this.

Fleur seems to understand that Hermione wants to do this, and she does not put up a resistance. She holds Hermione’s head to her breast and murmurs in quiet French as Hermione’s lips draw little content sounds from Fleur’s parted lips. 

It is only when Hermione starts to fumble with Fleur’s belt and pants that they have to break contact. Gringotts work pants are not the sort that can be easily maneuvered around, and Fleur helps Hermione pull them from her legs, knickers and all. Fleur’s eyes are dark, too dark to be fully human as Hermione’s reverent fingers find their mark. She watches Hermione move against her with dark, half-lidded eyes.

Hermione lowers her lips to kiss the places that she’s missed so much over the past few long months. The longing that she’s become so adept at ignoring as she revises and tries not to get killed, expelled, or worse surges like a great wave in Hermione’s chest. Her heart thuds against her chest as she pushes her tongue and then her fingers forward, watching Fleur come undone above her. It is this moment, the tension so thick she could cut it with a knife, that Hermione knows that she’s done right. 

“Ah-” Fleur’s voice comes only in strangled gasps and she’s pulling on Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her up to kiss her more fully. Hermione’s lips meet Fleur’s and they’re locked in the age old dance. Fleur’s grinding against Hermione’s hand and almost as quickly as the moment where she is there, she’s falling away the next, cresting over an edge so intense that Hermione has to bring her down slowly.

In the late June sunlight, Fleur’s skin seems almost deathly pale. Her eyes are dark as Hermione holds her, their foreheads presses together. Hermione breaths heavily, pressing her lips to Fleur’s sweaty temple. “I missed you so much,” she whispers because it is all that can be said in such moments.

Fleur’s fingers trace patterns on Hermione’s hip and her eyes flutter closed. “I ‘ave missed ‘ou as well,” she says and Hermione feels a smile tug at the corner of her lips. 

She is truly happy to be home.


	3. The Fog (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is coming. They feel it with every passing hour, every day that slips by, counting down the hours until they are forced to part once more. As Hermione's sixth year begins she finds herself faced with a decision that she cannot take lightly and a promise that she has sworn to herself that she will never regret. Tumbling forward to the very brink of war, Hermione struggles to make the right decisions to keep herself and those she loves safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a good but of underage sexual content over the course of the story. Hermione is fifteen during Goblet of Fire and Fleur is seventeen, while they age up over the course of this story, I feel it is necessary to warn the readership who might find such sexual situations triggering. There is also a good bit of discussion of various forms of prejudice, but it is merely mentioned, and certainly not glorified at all. 
> 
> In this particular chapter there is a good deal of discussion of memory charms and the ethics of them as well. While I doubt anyone reading these books is actually a wizard and has any form of personal reference when it comes to such things, losing memory can be a challenging subject for some, so please be aware.

On Teenagers & Love

_a story by anamatics_

part three -  the fog

 

“Will you run or will you share your light  
Tell a story or live in strife  
See it when we're given hope  
That we know that we can grow”

The Kids

  

Fleur takes three newspapers every morning.  Hermione has taken over paying for the _Prophet_ because they both read it and the other two are, regrettably, in French.  She walks round to the corner shop just outside the protective barrier of the magical neighborhood where Fleur lives once a week to pick up a copy of the _The Guardian_ and tries not to think of the disapproving look her father would give her for reading such a liberal newspaper.  Her father’s a bit of a Tory in is views, all things considered.

She can’t help herself, really.  Hermione hasn’t ever taken a muggle civics class, but she does have a rudimentary understanding of how the government of the UK works.  There’ve been rumors and the leader of the Liberal Party is definitely putting forward a new agenda that Hermione thinks might actually stand a chance to oust the Conservatives and John Major from power for what will be the first time in Hermione’s life.  It’s truly an exciting concept, even if Hermione is far more preoccupied with what is going on in the wizarding world to give interesting political change in the muggle world the care and attention it deserves. 

Still, Hermione has taken it upon herself to keep her mother and her Labor leanings informed in her letters that are, regrettably, sent the muggle way.  Hermione is not going to make an owl fly across the Atlantic – it’s simply barbaric.

She writes about the potential change in the muggle government because the news that’s coming out of the _Prophet_ is frankly alarming and Hermione’s not quite sure how to tell her parents about it.  The Brockdale Bridge had been destroyed not long after Cornelius Fudge announced publicly that even if Voldemort had returned, he would not step down as Minister for Magic.  Dozens of muggles were killed that day, and Hermione cannot push aside the growing uneasiness that gnaws at the pit of her stomach when she thinks of her parents returning to England after having been away. 

Fleur thinks that Hermione should urge her parents to stay away longer, if they can at all arrange it. Over muggle Chinese take away, Hermione voices her fears.  “I don’t want them here,” she says as she sets down the discarded copy of _The Sun_ that she’s picked up from where it was abandoned at a table in the restaurant.  They’re waiting for their order, and Fleur is very discretely trying to tuck the menu into her pocket as Hermione scowls down at the wrinkled creases of the as they wait for their order.  There’s a report across the front page of a terrible amount of destruction in Somerset.  The story is accompanied with pictures of damaged homes that look not as though, as the reporter leads the reader to believe, there was a hurricane; but rather like a giant has taken its fist and put it through the side of a building.  “Too much is happening, they won’t be safe.

“Zen tell zem,” Fleur replies, fiddling with the cup of free tea that they’ve been offered while they wait.  “Zey will not know unless you do so,” she turns icy blue eyes to Hermione and gives her a small, sad smile.  Hermione knows that Fleur desperately misses her family.  They talk to each other over the floo almost daily, but there is no chance for a visit now, what with the murder of Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance.  Both were at least nominally connected to the Order, and Madam Bones, the rumors say, had been killed by Voldemort himself.  “’ermione it is not so much, really.  Zey will understand.”  Fleur heaves a rueful sigh.  “Mes parents?  When I told zem what might ‘appen, should zey come, zey told me to forget everyzing and return ‘ome.  I cannot do zat, I sworn an oaf.”

Hermione sets the paper in the recycling bin by the exit, ignoring the glare that the restaurant worker gives her as she tucks it amidst the discarded soda cans and beer bottles. She’s half-smiling because Fleur’s pronunciation is getting better, yes, but the word ‘oath’ still so completely foreign to her that it almost sounds like she’s saying the French word for egg instead.  Hermione’s starting to pick up on French slowly.  Fleur tries not to use it too much around her, and Hermione can’t find the words to say that she really doesn’t mind.  She likes learning new things, after all.

“I know,” she says and sighs.  Her fingers move to run through her hair, but she remembers at the last possible second that she’s managed to tame it down into a braid today and the unwelcome intrusion of fingers might actually be too much for it.  She doesn’t want to have to deal with any tangles.  “They’re coming back in two weeks’ time, anyway. I think when I do go back to see them, I’ll try and explain what’s happening and ask them what they want to do.”

“Bon,” Fleur says with a sense of finality as she takes the brown-paper bag of Chinese food that’s handed to her by the clerk behind the counter and they head outside into the unnatural chill. 

It’s been cold ever since she arrived in London, unseasonably so for the dead of summer.  Misty.  Hermione’s got a jumper on despite the fact that it’s July and even in England that seems a bit excessive. Fleur has said that the Order suspects that it’s because there are dementors on the loose and they’re probably breeding.  Hermione finds the idea of dementors breeding positively revolting, but at the same time she wonders about the logistics of it.  Do they lay eggs? Birth live young?  Are they like seahorses and have a transsexual sort of a mating process, or are they maybe asexual?  She resolves to look it up the next chance she gets.

As they make their way back to Catterlily Place, Hermione chews on her lip, full of nervous energy and anticipation.  Once they step past the protective barrier of the muggle-repelling wall, Hermione feels the tension in her shoulders start to dissipate.  She cannot help herself, and she cannot help the pang of guilt that fills her as she finds herself breathing easier around wizards.  Muggles are what she knows, they are her people, and yet Hermione is starting to find that she prefers the danger and darkness of the magical world to the technicolored lights and technology of the muggle one.

Back at Fleur's flat, they unpack their dinner (Fleur isn't much of a cook as most of the recipes that she knows require far more preparation time than Fleur has to devote to them) and Hermione takes down plates and glasses with the practiced ease of one who has been doing this for years, rather than a little over a week and a half.

"Zey sacked ze minister for magic today," Fleur comments as she passes Hermione a set of chopsticks.  "Tonks et Kingsley..." Fleur shakes her head and sits up a little straighter.  "Zey zink zat it will be ze 'ead of zeir département."

"Of Magical Law Enforcement?" Hermione ponders this.  She doesn't know anything about many of the ministers that are part of Fudge's government.  "Wouldn't they all be sacked as well if the government dissolves?"

Fleur shrugs.  "Ce n'e-" she stops and swallows, her cheeks coloring a little bit. Her hair falls into her face and she seems to shrink down within herself.  Hermione hates that this is a vision of Fleur that she’s become accustomed to, because the Fleur that she’d first met at Hogwarts had been nothing but confidence and bravado.  A year of working closely with strict and intolerant goblins had been enough to force embarrassment over the fact that English was not her native language onto Fleur.  "Désolé, 'ermione," she says quietly.   "You are starting to understand so much zat I forget..."

Hermione reaches out and tangles her fingers around Fleur's around the take away cartons and discarded fortune cookies, carefully set aside to be eaten later. "I understand," she says as earnestly as she can.  She smiles what she hoped is a reassuring sort of a smile and adds, "It isn't as if I can offer you the same consideration."

She's greeted with a thin-lipped smile and the ever-present reminder that Fleur is spreading herself far too thin with all that she is attempting to cram into increasingly longer days.  She seems almost blurry around the edges, her skin paler than ever before, and dark circles under her eyes that don't seem to get better even when Hermione makes a conscious effort to go to sleep on time so that Fleur can get a full night's rest. She's read about this in the books her father's given her about the Great War and World War Two, the wasting sickness that seems to come with war.  It's a morose sort of melancholy, the kind with no cure besides the inevitable end in death or victory.

Hermione hates that she seems to be the only one who's noticed how Fleur (and Bill, and Mr. Weasley the one time she saw him in passing a few days ago) seems weary before the day has really even gotten started.  It's only going to get worse, she knows.  And soon it will be written across all their faces, yet another testament to the truly monumental cost of this war fought entirely in the shadows.

The next morning the wizarding and muggle papers alike carry a story about the supposed breakdown of a Junior Minister in the muggle government named Herbert Chorley.  The _Prophet_ goes into it more, indicating that the poor official has been sent to St. Mungo's Hospital due to a particularly bad reaction to a poorly cast Imperius curse. Apparently he'd become convinced he was a duck.

Hermione reads the story as she watches Fleur avoid eating the toast that Hermione had made her. Hermione doesn't comment on Fleur's lack of morning appetite, noting that the circles under her eyes have grown darker and she seems almost as though she's trying to will herself away.

"I'm going to make you coffee," Hermione announces. Standing up, her chair scrapes loudly against the floor of Fleur's sunny kitchen.  "I wish you'd sleep," she adds as Fleur rests her elbow on the table and cradles her chin in her palm, propping herself up sleepily as she watches Hermione bustle about in the kitchen.

"Kingsley is going to be taking a position in ze muggle government," Fleur says quietly, picking at the crust on the piece of toast Hermione's made her.  "I know, I know, you are not of age, I should not be telling you zese zings.  Ze Order, zey are very..."  Fleur waves a hand tiredly at the toast and Hermione nods her agreement.

She'll be of age in two months anyway and Fleur knows as well as Hermione herself does that her friendship with Harry will place her on the front lines of this war.

Hermione puts the kettle on the stove with the quiet sound of metal hitting metal and reaches for the matches to light the stove.  She turns the gas on and waits for it to click into life, holding the lit match to catch on the gas.  Hermione can see Fleur watching her with a fond, if tired, smile on her face.  Her eyes are half closed and her hair is falling across her forehead in such a way that Hermione's breath catches.  It is the moments like these when Hermione remembers that Fleur is still so young.  Her face, while matured successfully out of puberty, still has a child-like glow in some lights.

"I know zat I should sleep more," Fleur confesses, scratching her fingers up along her scalp and pulling her bangs from her eyes.  She blinks in the morning light and Hermione gets the coffee down.  "Ze same could be said to you, 'ermione."

Hermione has spent the time that she's been here so far reading and researching. It's very strange for her to be able to go down and sit in a cafe all day, buried in her books.  Over earlier summer holidays, her mother's garden was the furthest outside that she could go with her arithmancy or charms textbooks.  Now, staying in a wizarding neighborhood, no one bothers to look at her twice as she does problem sets or practices wand motions with her spoon out in the open.

The increasingly drawn and worried faces of the residents of  Fleur's building and the neighborhood at large only further serve to drive home the point that they're both all-too-aware of.  War is coming and the idyllic peace that they've achieved now, in this moment of tranquil domesticity is soon going to vanish like a flame snuffed between two fingertips.

Chewing on her lip, Hermione readies the press and scoops the kettle off of the stove just as it starts to hiss.  She pours herself a cup for tea and the rest into the press for Fleur's coffee.  "I know," she confesses.  "I just - I have a lot on my mind."  She looks sheepishly up at Fleur and shakes her head.  "I just keep thinking about what I'm going to tell my parents.  I want them to be safe and away from here."

"Zey are sure to understand-" Fleur starts.

"They're my parents, Fleur," Hermione says shortly, cutting her off.  "They have every personality quirk that I have, only with a good thirty years on me to perfect them."

"So you are saying zat zey are brilliant but stubborn as oxen?"  Fleur chuckles and Hermione tries her absolute best to glare at her.  The Sorting Hat had said she'd had the mind for Ravenclaw, but her best traits were Gryffindor's through and through.  Hermione supposes that such behaviors are learned by those around you as a child, and her parents’ rows are quite epic.  Both of them refuse to back down from even the smallest of challenges.  It makes for some fantastic dentistry, together with their business partner, but Hermione’s mother is constantly trying to take on more NHS patients, where her father wants to stay more in the private sector. 

This is the problem in a nutshell.  Her parents are proud people with very different opinions about a great number of topics.  They don't understand, they cannot possibly understand the danger that they are in.  She's well known, thanks to Rita Skeeter during the Triwizard Tournament, as a close friend of Harry's. Anyone with even a fraction of a brain would be able to ascertain that fact with just a simple perusal of the papers over the past two years. And if Hermione is certain of anything, it's that Voldemort will want to be as up to date on current events as he can possibly be.  She wouldn't be remotely surprised if he's following the muggle political situation as well.

"Exactly," Hermione agrees with a rueful smile.  "I don't believe that they'll listen to me when I tell them about Voldemort - about what happened at the Ministry and the breakouts from Azkaban."  She sighs then, long and suffering, because there is no solution.  "They're still convinced that magic is just some sort of parlor trick.  They don't..."  She pushes the press down with slow and practiced ease and shakes her head.

"Zey are not understanding zat magic can kill, non?" Fleur asks as Hermione finally pours the coffee into a cup and brings it and the bottle of milk over to the table. She hands Fleur her cup of coffee and settles herself back into her chair, ignoring the discarded plate of toast in front of Fleur. 

"I'm still trying to explain to them that you're not just exceptionally pretty," Hermione mutters, fishing the teabag out of her cup with a spoon and setting it aside. 

The flush that blossoms across Fleur's cheeks as she sips her coffee is enough to brighten Hermione's day considerably.

~

Hermione writes her first letter to Harry while on the train as she returns to her parents’ house the third week in July.  Hermione desperately doesn't want to leave. This is the first time that she’s felt content during the summer since she first started at Hogwarts.  Hermione hates that she’s grown so accustomed magic that the thought of returning to her parents’ house makes her want to cling even more tenaciously to her magical identity.  Fleur doesn’t understand it when Hermione tries to explain it to her; she’s always been fully magical.  She understands muggle culture to an extent, but it is not the same. 

Sometimes, when Hermione closes her eyes and tries to fall asleep to the sound of Fleur’s steady breathing beside her, all she can feel is Bellatrix LeStrange’s knife pressed up against her throat.  She can hear Harry’s screaming and Neville’s panicked breathing beside her. All she can remember is how afraid she was in that moment, and how terrible the press of Bellatrix’s Azkaban-thin body against her back felt. 

Even when she’s awake, Hermione can feel Bellatrix’s breath on her neck. She buries herself in school work and it’s scarcely a week of being on her own while Fleur works before her summer school work is completed.  She’s left alone with her thoughts, with the memories of Fleur’s wide, terrified eyes as she, Bill and Sirius appeared in the middle of the Department of Mysteries, Professor Lupin and Tonks hot on their heels.  She cannot shake them and she knows that she must.  She must be strong and brave and she certainly cannot _tell_ anyone that she can’t forget the press of that knife and how she had been powerless, so completely and utterly _powerless_ to stop her death in that one moment. 

Later, when she’d found herself sitting in the hospital wing at school, her neck still bleeding from where Madame Pomphrey had had to reopen the wound to repair the damage of the cursed blade, Hermione had been struck by how impossibly young Fleur had looked during the duels.  She was good, her skills had improved since the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, but she was nowhere near good enough.  One of the LeStrange men – Rabastian, Hermione had thought at the time – had cornered her and it was only through sheer luck that Fleur was not as dead as Sirius right now.

Hermione had been trying not to think about that realization ever since. She tries even now, lying curled up next to Fleur, but she can see the terror and the panic behind Fleur’s sleepy smile.  She hates it, hates that she cannot shake how deeply it has scarred her.

It is the night before Hermione is due to return to her parents, and Hermione’s trying to talk about anything but what she truly wants to talk about.  The mantra repeats over and over in her head, begging God and Merlin both to keep them both safe and help them to weather this storm.  _Don’t die,_ her mind races to the staccato rhythm of Fleur’s breathing, _Please don’t die._

"Once, when I was eight," Hermione says, settling herself more comfortably into the crook of Fleur's neck.  She can’t have this conversation now; she doesn’t even know where to start on the subject.  She needs more time to put her thoughts in order.  Maybe when she’s back at her parents’ house she’ll be able to actually put her thoughts together into something resembling a coherent series of sentences. She shifts, closing her eyes and hating herself for avoiding the topic on hand.  "I wanted to be a princess."

"You would make a lovely princess," Fleur murmurs, her fingers tangling in Hermione's hair, pulling at the curls, watching as the bounce back into place each time they're uncurled. It’s easier to not think about things that upset her when Fleur is close by, her arms protectively wrapped around Hermione’s body. "Mais... I do not zink zat we could be togezer, you know?  Ze French, we do not 'ave ze best track record wiz our nobility."

Hermione huffs, a little annoyed at the insinuation that she would be the sort of French noble Fleur’s thinking of. "I wouldn't be like your nobility – all ‘let them eat cake’ and what have you," she explains, before shaking her head.  "No, I'd be the sort that helps people; I’d spend all my time doing good work for people who can't help themselves."

And she's sure that she will too.  Even if the idea of working for Gringotts doesn't work out, there's always the civil service.  Hermione knows that she would do well in in the Ministry, even if she didn't want to mention it with that vile woman sitting right across McGonagall's desk from her during her career counseling session.

And before that there is the war.  She pushes the thoughts from her mind, trying not to dwell on them. They’re on her mind constantly, and the fear only grows with every passing day.

She will not let it ruin this moment too.

"Je pense que vous être bon à cela," Fleur says sleepily and Hermione finds that she understands what Fleur’s saying just fine. "Probably better zan most.  You 'ave a good 'eart. Zat is what makes you a Gryffindor, non?"

Before she came to Hogwarts, Hermione never thought of herself as particularly brave.  She remembers first year, being so utterly terrified at every passing second, thinking that they'd send her away. She remembers how it had pushed her to simply be better than everyone else, and how she'd nearly lost both Harry and Ron trying to be the best she could be in second year.  That had been Hermione’s version of being brave.

Now though, Hermione knows that she isn't brave.  She's fool-hardy and perhaps a little bit stupid – a true Gryffindor in that sense. They'd gone off half-cocked into a dire situation and someone had died.  Someone close to Harry - to all of them - had died because of their stupidity.

"There's a fine line between bravery and bravado," Sirius had said to her the night Harry had cast his patronus in the middle of Little Winging.  Hermione hadn't realized that he was talking about himself as much as he'd been taking about them.  She wonders if it had been a warning to watch Harry far more closely than she had last year.

“I suppose so,” she replies. 

They fall asleep as the moon is obscured by clouds and wake to weak sunlight and a far cooler day than Hermione could ever remember in the middle of July. Fleur is silent, her blue eyes dark and full of repressed emotion.  She's already said that she doesn't want Hermione to go, that it isn't safe. Hermione knows that she must go, however.  She has to have this conversation with her parents now, before it gets to be too late.

She doesn't know what she'll do if she can't convince them to go back to America.

"I will write when zey are going to collect 'arry," Fleur says quietly as Hermione hands over muggle money to the station attendant and collects her ticket home. Fleur’s dressed for the office today, not the vaults; she’s got on heels and a pencil skirt that leaves very little to Hermione’s imagination. She looks alluring, but conservatively professional. Hermione tries not to stare at Fleur as she walks.   "And before zat, aussi."

Hermione kisses her in the middle of King's Cross and doesn't much care that she seems to have scandalized half of London.

_Dear Harry_ , Hermione writes once she's settled into her seat on the train.  She has to temper her writing, somewhat, knowing that Harry is still grieving for Sirius.  _I am returning home to see my parents, and I expect we'll be able to see each other again around your birthday.  Fleur and Bill both have mentioned that there is a plan to collect you so you can have a proper birthday._

_I know that I mentioned to you last year that Fleur’s got a flat in London now.  Apparently living in headquarters got to be too much.  She and Bill have both moved into a lovely wizarding neighborhood near Diagon Alley.  Bill's got a live-in girlfriend now too.  Her name is Marietta and she works for the Ministry. She's nice enough, I suppose, rather dreadful really though.  If you haven't heard about her from Ron or Ginny yet, prepare yourself.  Fleur seems to like her, though, as she speaks French and knows some of Fleur's classmates._

_Harry, I know that you're going through a rough time right now, and I don't know what I can say to you.  I've never experienced a loss like that, and I won’t pretend to know what it is like to feel such pain.  All I want you to know is that I’m here, if you want to talk. You know that.  You know that I’d never judge you._

_I’ll be at my parents’ house until I tell you otherwise._  She signs her name and tucks the letter into her sleeve.  There’s a wizarding post office in nearly every train station in England, if you know where to look.  Hermione's been using the one at her local station since second year when she realized that she would have no way of writing Harry or Ron and had asked Professor McGonagall if the school owls were available for summer loan.  Professor McGonagall had actually smiled at her - and Hermione somehow has always fixated on that fact as, at twelve, the idea of her severe professor smiling at her was enough to make her _swoon_ > \- and had explained how to find a post office in the wizarding world. 

Hermione drops the letter into the "outgoing" box and inserts the six knuts into the slot beside it to cover the owl's care and upkeep before she turns to see her parents slowly making their way down the platform outside.  "You be careful out there dearie," says the clerk from behind the counter and Hermione nods her thanks and heads out to greet her parents.

They are very tan, and look as though America agreed with them.  Hermione smiles as she waves at them, but she's already dreading the inevitable conversation about the new scar on her neck that will never quite fade.  Madame Pomphrey had taken one look at Fleur's handiwork and had promptly undone it, muttering about French healing spells the whole time.

"'lo Hermione," her father says, pulling her forward into a tight, one-armed hug.  Hermione feels herself relax into the embrace and breathes in the smell of him.  Clean and minty, like any dentist, with just a touch of the bleach they used to clean the instruments. 

"Dad," she replies.  Hermione gets all of one half step back before she ends up being hugged far-too-tightly by her mother.  Hermione lets out a tiny little 'oof' and pats her mom on the back gently until she's freed.  "Mum."

They both look older than she remembers, but happy.  This is good; Hermione's never wanted them to not be happy and she knows that her magic and that she’s been drawn into a world that is so antithetical to their own must weigh on them. 

"You’ve gone and hurt your neck..." Her mother is tilting her chin up and pushing her hair aside. Hermione winces, because she doesn't want to have this conversation here, but it seems like it's going to happen regardless of her wishes.  "What happened, dear?"

Hermione sighs.  "That depends who you ask,"  she bats her mother's hand away from her neck and tugs at her collar, fingers lingering on the chain around her neck for a moment before adding.  "I got cut with an enchanted knife - I think, the wound wouldn't heal properly.  Fleur used a spell she'd learned in school on it, but Madame Pomphrey - she's the school's heal- _doctor-_ " Hermione corrects herself because she's found that it's best to explain things with labels that her parents will understand.  "She had to redo it because it was still bleeding."

Her parents stare at her a moment before her father jerks his thumb towards the door, "I've got the car in the carpark across the street, it's free for the first fifteen minutes."  He grins at Hermione, "Sounds like you had quite the year."

"On top of O.W.L.s," Hermione groans. "Don't remind me."

"It can't have all been bad," her mother chimes in with a bright smile and her hair blowing slightly in the breeze.  She winks almost conspiratorially at Hermione’s father and adds, "You got to spend some time with Fleur over the hols, and just now."

_No,_ Hermione supposes as her cheeks burn bright red with embarrassment, _it was actually one of the better years I’ve had at Hogwarts._

~

There are times when Hermione is grateful that she is muggle born and that she can transition easily between the two worlds that she straddles.  This is not one of those times, however, because it is the third time in as many days that she’s had to explain to her mother that no, Fleur did not give her a bloody engagement symbol.

They're sitting out in her parent's garden, and her mother has made lemonade.  It's warmed considerably since she's returned home, and Hermione's caught herself wondering more than once about where in London dementors can easily breed. She knows she should probably let it go, but it's just so fascinating to be outside of the city and have a lot of the effects of the supposed dementors activity seem to completely vanish.

"So tell me about what it means for Fleur to give you this thing," Her mother asks and Hermione tries not to groan too loudly.

She closes her Care of Magical Creatures text and sets it across her lap.  She's been around this twice already now and it still is miserable.  Hermione chews her lip and stares across the garden into the neighbor's, where there is a swing that Hermione remembers from her childhood.  She wonders if the girl next door even knows that she's still alive.  They had been the best of friends before Hermione had accidentally made her cabbage patch doll disappear in a childish fit of underage magic.

"As I've said before, it is merely an old symbol that is very well-respected within the wizarding community.  Veela are creatures known for their deceptive beauty - and they love very strongly. To the wizarding community, a veela is the sort of creature that it is deemed acceptable to intermarry with as they possess a powerful magic," Merlin, it sounds like she is reciting a _textbook_ , Hermione shakes her head and rubs at her temple.  "It basically means that she's promised herself to me."

"And is there a return gesture?" Her mother's eyebrows are raised so high into the short curls of her fringe that they nearly disappear and Hermione's brow furrows, trying to think if there is one.  She cannot recall, and her cheeks flush bright red, embarrassed that she’s somehow missed something.  "Hermione Jean, you did make sure you were not incredibly rude to Fleur, didn't you?"

Hermione's cheeks burned bright red and she looked down at the text in her hands.  "I... honestly I was so taken aback at how forward she'd been."

Her mother levels her with a gaze that reminds Hermione just a little too much of Professor McGonagall and says, "Well, as Fleur is a very nice girl, I should hope that you do look into if there is a gesture in return.  I don't know much about your wizarding world, but they do seem to put a great deal of stock in _tradition_.  You'd best get along then and see if you've done something rude."

Feeling appropriately chastised, Hermione flees.

She doesn’t get a chance to delve any deeper into the subject as her parent’s business partner (for when they do take private patients) has come over for dinner and is full of questions about Hermione’s A-Levels and what college she’s thinking about attending.  Hermione, for her part, covers as best she can, talking at length about the mathematics exam (because Arithmancy is incredibly similar to muggle mathematics – only it is used to explain how spells work, rather than to explain the natural order of things).  Her parents seem grateful that Hermione has actually thought ahead enough to cover for this, but she’s still sitting wearing a t-shirt with the Gryffindor lion emblazoned across the front.

“Your school mascot?” their guest asks with raised eyebrows and Hermione remembers him when she was eleven over the Christmas hols, taking in her bright red Gryffindor scarf and announcing that red suited her. That comment has become something of a trend in her life.

“One of four,” Hermione explains, picking at the placemat.  She closes her eyes and hopes that her mum or dad will step in and save her from explaining anything else.  They're both listening and have what Hermione recognizes to be worried looks on their faces, but probably just look like normal expressions to their guess. She shrugs and adds,  "I just like the lion the best."

"Good lass," is the response she gets with a wide smile and perfectly straight, bright white teeth.  Hermione wants to groan in the most overly-dramatic way she can possibly arrange, sometimes being surrounded by dentists can be rather frustrating.  Especially with her tea habit.

Her parents start into a conversation about politics and how the moves that the government is making might impact their business and patients.  Hermione half-listens, because someday soon she'll actually have to vote in muggle elections and wants to be able to make informed decisions; but mostly her mind is elsewhere.

She's stuck on the subject of Voldemort.  The muggle papers are reporting the deaths and the attacks like natural disasters and suspicious circumstances.  They know nothing and her parents haven't asked her if all the oddness of the weather this summer can be explained by magical means.  She's too afraid to say anything, because this peace has been so nice, but the conversation has to happen, and soon.

That night, Hermione sits in her bedroom with _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ and Fleur's book on veela propped open on her bed.  She's reading about marriage and courtship and ancient lore and rituals and her heart is sinking with every passing moment.

The necklace that rubs uncomfortably against the scar on her neck is depicted on the page of Fleur's book, and it's referenced in _Fantastic Beasts_.  There are words that are supposed to be said and her mother had been correct in that there was a return promise that had to be made.  Hermione swallows and stares down at the ring illustrated on the following page of the book on veela.  How she missed this on her first, second, or third read-through of the book is completely beyond her.  (She has a distinct suspicion that the book is charmed to provide only pertinent information to the reader.)

A ring.

A ring means a lot more than a necklace, no matter cultural or religious background.  It had to be forged by a master smith using old techniques that had been around since before the Greeks and Romans.  It had to be folded silver.  It had to be given with a promise that would not be willingly broken.

Hermione bites her lip and bends off the side of her bed, fishing underneath it for a roll of parchment and a quill.  She isn't sure if Ron can help her get this to the right shop, and she desperately hopes that he'll do it without protest.  She can't ask Ginny (who likes Fleur well enough but would probably tell her mother) or Harry.  Ron is just sneaky enough that he might be able to get an answer to her question without raising too many other ones.  Hermione signs the letter and then writes a quick note to Ron.

_Dear Ron,_

_Has Harry returned your owls?_ It's always the first question she asks in letters to Ron over the summer.  She knows that it's because of the summer between first and second year, when she was buggered off to France and Harry spent the entirety of the summer locked and starving in his room with Hedwig.  She adds the next bit because Harry has been writing her back, at least - after she sent him muggle stamps and envelopes.  _He's been writing me through the muggle post, daily letters now that I'm at my parents' house.  He sounds like he's really depressed, Ron, and I don't know how to help him.  Seeing you myself and Gin might be what's best for him. We need to get him out of his aunt's house as soon as possible.  How are the party plans going? Has Dumbledore told you anything about when he's collecting Harry?_

_I've enclosed a letter, no, don't open it, it isn't for you.  I was wondering if you could do me a favor and ask your mum (or dad) the name of the smith that made their wedding bands._

_Oh, don't look like that Ron.  It isn't even like that, please. My mum mentioned that if I was going to take jewelry from a veela that I should best make sure there isn't some sort of a return gesture or promise.  I feel enough like an idiot for not knowing about it in the first place, so please, all teasing is to be kept to a minimum._ Hermione's quill pauses and she realizes that Ron (and Ginny) probably knows all about the return gesture because they have been brought up within the magical community and she resists the urge to call Ron out for being a nasty little wanker and not telling her.  She'll get him back at school, maybe practice a few hexes on him in the name of homework. 

_Anyway,_ she continues to write, _I want to return the gesture in the same way that Fleur meant it, and I need a master smith to make the ring.  I think I have enough to pay for a proper one, so if you could pass on the letter with Pig, I'd be much obliged._

_I hope you're all well, I miss you terribly,_

_Hermione_

Pigwidgeon has been visiting since Ginny's last letter, and Hermione finds an owl treat buried deep within her trunk and tries not to marvel as Pig manages to consume it all despite it being half his body size before flying off into the night, the two letters (as well as her response to Ginny's letter that she'd written earlier in the day) dangling rather precariously from his leg.

Hermione sits at her open window stares up into the growing night.  The air is growing colder now and she shivers slightly, thinking of Fleur's warm apartment.  This house is full of family, and yet it feels cold and distant.  There is a void that Hermione feels acutely.  She knows that it is from the distance.

She misses Fleur desperately.

A deep pang of something that Hermione cannot quite articulate wells up within her and she swallows hotly, pushing the window shut and drawing the curtains closed.  She crumples onto her bed and pulls the veela book towards her and flipping to the index.  A dry sob racks through her body and she feels like she's shaking, Bellatrix's knife pressed to her throat once more.

She finds the reference she's looking for, and turns to the page listed.  She has a hunch that she knows what is happening.

~

That day, October last, when Fleur had shown up in Hogsmeade with a devilish smile and a muggle leather jacket, Hermione had learned what it truly meant to love a veela.  Much like the history lessons whispered deep in the stacks of Madame Pince's silent library, Fleur had relayed the information that she knew in round-about, broken English.

Veela did not love like humans; Hermione had known that from the first time Fleur had kissed her.  What she had not realized was how quickly they fell into a deep and all-consuming love.  There was a common misconception that veela were like many of the birds that they shared so many common attributes with and mated for life, but that was not the case.  A veela could fall in and out of love, just like any other magical being, it was just the nature of _how_ they love that changed.

A veela who loved deeply and truly traditionally gave their desired partner a gift of jewelry forged deep in the forests where full-blooded veela still lived as they had for thousands of years. The idea, Fleur had explained with a raised eyebrow, was that the jewelry would serve as an added protection from the wayward eyes of others.  A veela's wrath an ill omen, as they were long-ago associated with the hearth and home.

"Nous som-we are-" Fleur had corrected herself, "creatures zat are ze embodiment of love of all ze kinds.  Not just ze lustful et romantique.  Non, ze mozer's love for 'er child, ze fazer for 'is fazer.  Tout l'amour... it is all comment-dit-on... _sacred_ to ze veela."

To love a veela, Fleur had gone to explain, is to love that expression of love and to be loved by all that is love.  It is not, Fleur had cautioned, something to be taken lightly.

Over time, the book that Fleur had sent Hermione for her sixteenth birthday had explained, the recipient of such love would come to crave it.  It would start as an ache at the pit of the stomach when away from their veela love for long periods of time, and soon it would manifest itself in other ways.  Irritability, sullenness and depression would follow if the pair were not fully bonded in the manner of the old ways.  The human, non-veela member of the relationship would have to return the promise of the veela in the form of a ring forged by a master smith in the old style.  The book had made assurances that because of how common intermarrying with veela was within the wizarding (and muggle, interestingly enough) communities, that such rings were not rare at all.

Once bonded, a pair could continue apart if needed. Hermione underlines and marks this page with a little flag so that she can refer back to it later.  She still isn't entirely sure what the bonding ceremony truly entails.  Is it just the giving of the ring and reiterating the promise?  The books that she has here are not very helpful, and she wants to do this properly.  She owes that much to Fleur.

She has a sinking feeling that no matter what happens with Voldemort, she and Fleur are not going to be able to be at peace until he's dead.

_Merlin_ , Hermione thinks, falling back onto her bed, a flutter of parchment and books and a few feather from her down pillow floating up into the air as her body hits the mattress.  She's only sixteen; she shouldn't have to think about this sort of thing.

Yet it is all that's on her mind.  There is a war brewing and she can see it coming clear as day in the papers and in the drawn and wary way that even the muggles in her very muggle hometown are walking about.  Hermione wishes that it were different, that she'd had more time, that she'd met Fleur when she was older and less likely to bugger it all up.

She's only sixteen.

~

Ginny writes her to tell her of the plans for Harry’s birthday party and to bemoan Bill’s new girlfriend.  Hermione reads her letter with a smile and tucks it next to the short notes that she’s been getting from Harry.  He’s been sending her snippets of things he’s remembered that Sirius has told him, things that he thinks might be important. Hermione’s just grateful that he’s talking at all as she thinks she’ll go mad, cooped up in this house until the end of July.

Her parents aren't really helping.  They're watching her with what Hermione thinks has to be trepidation and it's starting to grate her nerves.

The morning that Ginny's letter arrives, Hermione's mother mentions that she has wanted Hermione to come with her into town for the day.  It is a Sunday, after all, and they've never been a particularly religious family.  Sundays are for day trips and reading and tending to the garden, with a bit of shopping thrown in for good measure. They go to church on Christmas and Easter, and Hermione honestly cannot recall the last time she went.

"Why don't you come into town with me today, we can get you some new clothes for school," Her mother taps her chin pensively and adds with the grin that Hermione has long come to expect from her mother.  It’s slightly teasing, but definitely supportive at the same time.  "And a haircut if you'd like."

Hermione's fingers fly to her hair, she's put it back with a headband and tie, but it is getting a little long.  It's always been a problem when it gets to be past a certain length.  During the school year, she’d had Lavender Brown use a trimming charm on it because Lavender was most certainly one of _those_ sorts of girls and was really rather good at it.  She’d confessed to Hermione on more than a few occasions that if her proposed career in divination did not work out that she’d very much like to go into magical hair-dressing.  Hermione’s cheeks color a little when she thinks about just how hard it had been to hide her derisive snort of contempt.  At least _she_ had loftier ambitions than Lavender Brown.  Hair dressing indeed.

“I could use a trim,” Hermione says tentatively, tugging at one of her curls. 

“It’s settled then,” Her mother drains the rest of her tea and rises to put her cup in the sink.  She pauses then, her body frozen as if she’s been hit by the impediment jinx, and stares at Hermione. 

“What is it?” Hermione asks, but her mother shakes her head and heads towards the sink where the pathos is apparently thriving and threatening to take over the entirety of the upper kitchen cabinets with leafy tendrils that remind Hermione all-too-much of devil’s snare.  Her mother doesn’t say another word about whatever it was that had stuck her in that moment, and Hermione doesn’t dare ask.

They go into town and Hermione spends the afternoon getting her hair cut and seeing a parade of vaguely familiar faces from her days at primary school.  She recognizes some of the boys and hardly any of the girls.  She supposes that it’s because boys grow up slower than girls, and most girls start to wear their hair differently and put on makeup.  Harry and Ron haven’t really changed that much at all since first year.  They’re growing like weeds, yes, but Harry’s only just starting to grow a mustache and she’s pretty sure that Ron’s never going to have much of a beard.  None of the men in his family do at any rate.

Still, it is nice to see people that she hasn’t seen in years.  Hermione trails after her mother through the stores, pausing only to admire a bag she’s found at the back of one of the more high-end shops that her mother’s dragged her into.  Neither of them are really much for shopping, but Hermione has made the mistake of mentioning that she probably could do with a dress for school functions.  They’ve been into five shops now and the only thing even remotely appealing to Hermione is this bag. 

Staring down at it in her hands, it really doesn’t seem that interesting, honestly.  A bit girly for her tastes, really.  It has a beaded fringe and isn’t very big, but the strap is a cross body one and it’s made of thin, subtle leather that feels very much like Fleur’s Gringotts jacket under Hermione’s fingers.  Hermione wonders if it can be modified at all, expanded to hold more.  It’s the sort of thing that people would think to be unassuming, they wouldn’t questioning her having it and she could maybe charm it to hold more…

_Bigger on the inside,_ she recalls from her childhood, and turns to find her mother holding up a pink, frilly monstrosity of a dress that she would not be caught dead in. 

“I’d like this?” Hermione says hopefully, and holds up the bag. Her mother seems almost grateful that Hermione has asked her for something and takes it up to the clerk without a second glance at the horrible pink dress.

After Hermione reads Ginny’s letter upon returning home that evening, she realizes that her time to actually discuss what’s going on in the magical world with her parents is growing short.  She sits them down in the garden, grateful that the evening is warm for a change, and begins to explain what’s happened in the past year. 

“We heard about those escaped convicts,” Her father says sagely.  He’s starting to go a bit bald on the top of his head and Hermione wonders when that had started to happen. She honestly doesn’t remember much about what her father looked like last summer.  Her mind had been elsewhere and the pang of guilt she feels upon realizing this is enough to make her wish that she could be a better daughter.  “It was all over the papers like that Sirius Black bloke two years ago.”

“Yes, only Sirius was innocent,” Hermione reminds them for what feels like the hundredth time.  She had had to be very careful, coming home after third year, with what she told her parents about the events of that night she’d lived two nights during the time it took a normal person to live one.  “Only I suppose it doesn’t much matter anymore, he was killed by one of the one who escaped Azkaban.  His cousin.”

“My-” Her mother begins but Hermione just shakes her head.  “That poor boy,” her mother says and Hermione’s thoughts turn towards Harry once again.  She hates that he can’t come spend summers here, or with Ron.  She understands that there has to be a reason why Dumbledore keeps sending him back to that household that is so clearly cruel to him.  She doesn’t think that any head of any school would tolerate the sort of treatment that Harry so casually describes when he talks about his summers, and she’s absolutely positive he knows about it. 

And she almost hates him for it.

Hermione begins to explain what’s been happening. She tells her parents of the dire news that’s come through and of the attempt on John Major through one of his secretaries that’s lead to him having to have a magical guard at all times.

“The Prime Minister?” Her father’s eyebrows are raised and he sounds almost incredulous.  “What would they want him for?” He lowers his voice, casting a nervous glance around the garden and Hermione is once again glad that she decided to let Ginny take Crookshanks with her back to the Burrow.  He would have an absolute field day, chasing all the wildlife that lived in and amongst her mother’s shrubbery.  Her mother would hate it. “He’s not… you know…” He trails off, his eyebrows climbing even higher up his forehead.

“No,” Hermione shakes her head.  “I don’t think so at any rate.”  She looks between her parents.  “No, but Voldemort,” she swallows at the name, “isn’t stupid and probably realizes that if he were to kill or control the muggle prime minister that a lot of his future plans would be a lot easier.”

“Now look here,” her father says then, and Hermione almost winces.  “Voldy-whatsit isn’t going to just go into Downing Street and wave a wand and kill the PM just like that, it doesn’t work that way.  There are _guards_.”

“No,” Hermione says, feeling defeated and knowing that she cannot urge her parents to leave if they don’t even accept the fact that yes, it would be just that simple for Voldemort to kill just about anyone.  She feels the weight of the argument pressing down hard on her shoulders and she knows that she has to think of something else in order to keep her parents safe.  “I don’t suppose it would work that way.”

~

Fleur comes to collect Hermione the evening before Harry’s sixteenth birthday.  She stays for dinner with her parents and Hermione ignores her mother’s rather pointed looks towards her necklace.  She’s heard back from the master smith that Ron had forwarded her letter to (and has told Ron off in response to the not-at-all-funny note he’d sent in return) and is going to pick up her order whenever she goes to Diagon Alley to purchase her school things.  Her parents have given her more than enough money to buy her books and new robes for the year.

It’s strange, to say goodbye to her parents at the end of July and to tell them when the Hogwarts Express leaves.  She feels oddly grown up, watching as Fleur shakes her father’s hand awkwardly and lets Hermione’s mother hug her and press a kiss to her cheek.  It’s like she’s actually dating someone with lasting potential and not at all like she’s sixteen years old with what feels like the weight of the world crashing down on her shoulders.

And they should be getting their O.W.L. results soon, the thought bubbles to the surface like an ill-advised panic.  Hermione is terrified to see her Arithmancy mark and has been fretting about whether or not she should drop Astronomy no matter her mark.  She doesn’t think it’s a particularly effective subject for anything she wants to go into and she does need more time for the Arithmancy practical that’s probably going to be added into the N.E.W.T.-level classes. 

After Hermione’s trunk is effectively shrunk and charmed feather-light, Fleur’s fingers’ tangle in her own and Hermione feels the familiar tug of side-along apparation. They land in a clearing just outside the Burrow, Hermione lurching into Fleur and the pair of them stumbling awkwardly a few steps to the left before Fleur’s fingers tangle in Hermione’s newly-trimmed hair.  She holds Hermione until she’s steady on her feet and then Fleur kisses her, long and slow and pointed. 

Hermione feels a swell of need surge up within her body and she wraps her arms around Fleur’s neck, kissing her under a waning moon in the shadow of the Burrow.   Fleur is soft and the night air is cool against Hermione’s skin as she kisses Fleur without a care in the world.  It’s dangerous to be out in the open like this at night, and they both know it, but to go inside means that they won’t be able to do this. Mrs. Weasley still doesn’t particularly approve of their relationship.  Hermione supposes that she’ll probably have her hands full with Bill’s apparently ghastly girlfriend, but Hermione’s finding that she doesn’t much care as Fleur pulls her closer and deepens the kiss.

The moon hangs low overhead and despite its waning shape, it still is bright enough to nearly block out the stars. Hermione stares up at it when Fleur finally steps back with an impish smile.  Her lips are swollen and she looks a little ruffled, far from the perfect veela girl that Hermione had hated on principle when Fleur had first come to the school at the beginning of fourth year. 

“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” Hermione says, taking Fleur in as she’s silhouetted in the moonlight.  Her white-blonde hair seems go glow and Hermione finds herself absently smoothing it flat where her fingers have mussed it up as Fleur presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Merci, ‘ermione,” Fleur says and Hermione grins at her.  They share another moment then, Fleur’s fingers tangling in Hermione’s hair and Hermione resting her cheek against Fleur’s shoulder.  They both look dead exhausted, but Hermione feels happier than she’s felt in a long time.  She knows that it’s probably because of the necklace and the weight that the promise carries.  The veela book had said that much at least, but Hermione thinks that there might be more to it.

Fleur stares at her for a long time then, her eyes looking almost black in the moonlight.  Hermione’s just about to open her mouth to say something about going inside, when Fleur says it for her, “Allons-y, ils nous attendent.”

The kitchen of the Burrow is bright and cheerful despite the late hour.  The light streams out from the windows and Hermione moves around the old wellington boots and rusty cauldrons as Fleur knocks on the door.  Mrs. Weasley’s voice calls from inside, “Who is it?”

“C’est Fleur et ‘ermione,” Fleur says quietly, almost leaning on the door.

Mrs. Weasley replies in a tone that almost seems hesitant and scared, “Tell me something only I would know?”

Hermione recalls Ginny mentioning something about the Minister for Magic issuing pamphlets to all magical households on how to identify and protect families against dark wizards and her family had implemented the protections.  Hermione had been not at all surprised to note that her family had not received such a pamphlet. Fleur almost rolls her eyes, but answers the question in good faith, “My grandmozer’s ‘air, it is in my wand.”

Molly Weasley opens the door and pulls them both inside with a nervous glance towards the empty gardens and the field beyond them.  The moon hangs low in the sky and her red hair takes on a strange sheen as she waves a hand and checks the wards.  “It’s lovely to see you both,” she says with a bright smile, before casting a worried glance into the kitchen just beyond.  Hermione peers over her shoulder to see Bill and Marietta sitting at the kitchen table shelling peas with Ginny and Ron.  Ginny has a murderous look on her face and keeps glaring daggers at Marietta when she thinks no one’s looking.

Hermione’s eyebrows rise in curiosity and she feels Fleur’s finger’s tangle in her own as Molly pulls Hermione into a tight hug.  “I felt positively horrible leaving you at the train station, Hermione.” Her round cheeks draw into a thin line and Hermione just shakes her head.

“It’s really okay, Mrs. Weasley.  Fleur and Bill came about five minutes after you all left,” she explains and then toes off her trainers and steps into the kitchen properly.  Ginny is smiling brightly now, her chair scraping against the kitchen floor as she gets to her feet to smile brightly at Hermione. 

“Hullo,” she says and Hermione hugs her tight. She never really realizes how much she misses Ginny until she’s not around her for a spell, and then the need to see her grows again.  It’s an odd sort of a feeling – Hermione wonders if it’s because she’s never had a female friend before.  Parvati and Lavender are alright, but she’s far closer with Ginny and, to some extent, Luna Lovegood. 

“Fleur, are you going to be spending the night tonight?”

“If it is not too much trouble,” Fleur shrugs, her cheeks coloring slightly.  “I ‘ave taken ze day, I zought zat you might want some ‘elp wiz all ze preparations.”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile is real and genuine and Hermione wonders when her attitude towards Fleur had changed so much.  She seems almost grateful for the help, glancing over to where Ron, Bill and Marietta are all talking in low voices over their peas.  “That would be lovely,” she says and then turns to Hermione.  “I’ve put you in with Gin,” she explains.  “You’ll have to kip together I’m afraid.  Fleur, do you mind sleeping on the sofa in the sitting room?  Dumbledore’s written to say that Harry should be arriving in the morning and I’ve put him in Fred and George’s old room…”

Fleur shrugs and Hermione half-opens her mouth to say that she doesn’t mind sharing with Fleur, but Fleur’s shot her a look that tells her that it’s probably for the best to keep quiet.  Hermione swallows her want to protest. 

Ron trails up the stairs after Hermione and Ginny, divesting himself from Bill and Marietta as they start to discuss work as Mrs. Weasley sets a bowl of potatoes in front of all of them to peel.  Fleur lingers and Mrs. Weasley directs her to a pot that’s bubbling on the stove with a smile and asks her if she knows anything about making shepherd’s pie.  Hermione tries and fails to keep the smile off of her face as she sees Fleur’s nose wrinkle just a little bit as she pulls the lid off of the pot.  Ginny waits until they’re all safely closed in her bedroom on the third floor before she starts.  “I cannot stand her,” she grinds out. 

“Oh come on, Gin,” Ron says, but Hermione can tell that his heart is not really in his protests.  “She’s not that bad.”

Hermione knows that the idea of Bill having such a relationship must be odd for Ginny.  Charlie doesn’t date as far as Hermione knows and Percy is never around anymore.  Bill’s always been her hero too.

“They’re getting _married_ ,” Ginny continues, pacing up and down the small amount of floor space between her bed and the camp bed that’s shoved up against the wall under the window.  Hermione’s mouth opens and she shares a long glance at Ron who gives her the tiniest shrug as Ginny turns to pace back towards the window.  She and Ron have always been good at these silent conversations.  Ron will wiggle his eyebrows and jerk his head one way or another, Hermione will nod and then purse her lips.  It’s the sort of skill that they both need to have when Harry gets going on one of his rants – or Ginny.  Hermione’s secretly hoping that they’ll figure out how much they like each other one of these days, they’re absolutely perfect for each other. 

“Well,” Ron says and his lips quirk up into the sort of evil smirk that makes Hermione want to scream, because she knows, she just _knows_ that he’s about to tease her.  “It’s not that bad, really.  Marietta’s really nice and she gets along great with Fleur so there is that.”

“Fleur would be a better option than bloody Marietta,” Ginny mutters darkly.  “No offense, Hermione.”

Hermione just shakes her head.  “None taken.”

The next morning Fleur comes to wake Hermione up and they head outside, collecting eggs from the sleepy chickens and delivering them to Mrs. Weasley who smiles at them brightly. She waves her wand and one by one they crack and start to whip themselves into a scramble.  Hermione puts the kettle on and they all sit, blinking bleary-eyed in the early morning sunlight. 

“Harry came in at about one o’clock this morning,” Mrs. Weasley says as Fleur levitates a plate of toast over from the fire.  Hermione perks up, anxious to see Harry.  After Hermione had snuck downstairs to spend a few minutes alone with Fleur the previous evening, Fleur had told her that Harry was expected the following morning and that he was helping Dumbledore with an errand before he came.  “He’s still sleeping, poor boy.  I put him in Fred and George’s old room.”

Fleur draws Hermione outside with her some twenty minutes later.  Bill and Mr. Weasley still have to work, as does Marietta.  Hermione tries her best to smile at the poor young woman, engagement ring glittering on her finger.  Over dinner the previous night, Hermione had gotten a full taste of why Ginny found Marietta so awful and she hated to say that she was inclined to agree.  Outside of Draco Malfoy, she had never met one who was so hell-bent on sucking up to anyone as Marietta was on attempting to get Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to like her.  Hermione hates to admit that it is really rather trying on her patience.

“I know zat ‘arry will tell you everzing,” Fleur says, toeing the dirt with a faded, dirty trainer that Hermione recognized from all the way back in fourth year.  “It is ‘ow ‘e is,” she continues.  Her hair is falling into her face and she looks almost translucent in the sunlight.  Hermione knows that she’s spreading herself far too thin, even now on a day off and she bites back her want to tell Fleur that she should be getting more rest.  “But I want you to ‘ave caution, zis ‘ear.  Zere are terrible zings zat are ‘appening, everywhere…” Fleur looks down at her hands before her blue, blue eyes rise to meet Hermione’s curious gaze.  “I do not want you ‘urt.”

“I know,” Hermione says, and she rises onto her tiptoes to press her lips to Fleur’s.  “I know, but I cannot promise that I will be safe.  No one can, especially not now.”

“C’est vrai,” Fleur says agreeably, and she pulls Hermione over towards the back of a half-formed haystack and pushes her down into the hay.  Hermione lets out an indignant squawk, flailing about as she lands amongst the good and clean smelling bits of hay.  Fleur smiles down at her, before settling herself down on Hermione’s lap and pressing her lips once more to Hermione’s. She smells of heat and of summer and Hermione’s fingers tangle in her hair as Fleur kisses her deeply. 

Fleur rocks against Hermione, her fingers pushing past the waistband of the loose shorts that Hermione slept in the night before and her hips rocking forward.  Hermione cannot help the little noises that escape her lips as Fleur’s fingers push her shorts down and slip underneath her knickers.  She’s wet and ready and Fleur’s fingers down waste any time at all, slipping inside and curling upwards. 

“Ff—aaaa,” Hermione gasps out, her fingers clawing at the back of Fleur’s old button down that Hermione is pretty sure belonged to Bill once upon a time.  She pushes it up, finding that Fleur is not wearing a bra underneath it and hisses her appreciation, her fingers playing against smooth skin as Fleur buries her head in Hermione’s neck and nips at her pulse point.  She feels so good, so perfect, and all of the doubts that Hermione had had about making such a promise to Fleur at such a young age vanish in this one perfect moment.

She comes quietly, her breath hot in Fleur’s ear as Fleur whispers to her in French that she is the most beautiful creature on earth.  Hermione lays back in the hay and early morning sunlight and watches as Fleur sits back, hay in her hair.  Hermione’s still recovering, panting and breathless as Fleur slowly licks her fingers clean.  She feels another surge of arousal then, and she reaches up, grabbing at the half-open buttons on Fleur’s shirt.  She pulls Fleur back down on top of her, kissing her until she’s breathless and sucking on Fleur’s tongue like it’s her only lifeline. 

They roll around in the hay like the teenagers enjoying a stolen moment that they are.  Hermione scoots herself down and presses her lips to Fleur’s sex.  She’s done this enough now that she knows, she knows that this is what Fleur likes.  Hermione’s lips curl up into a smile as Fleur’s fingers tangle in her hair and hold her there and she sucks and licks and slips her fingers in when her jaw starts to get sore.

Hermione curls her tongue just to the spot that Fleur likes best and sucks until Fleur gasps and goes still, her body shaking involuntarily.  It is perfect, in that moment, and Hermione licks her lips as she pulls away slowly, her smile never fading. 

“I--” she begins, pressing her lips against Fleur’s neck and then moving a little bit further up to whisper in her ear.  “I am going to make you a promise,” she begins to explain.  “I know I’m only sixteen, but you made it to me and I want to make it to you as well.”

“’ermione,” Fleur says, pushing herself downwards into the hay and staring up at Hermione.  “You would do zat?”

Hermione grins at her, feeling almost overwhelmed by the surge or emotion that wells up within her.  She knows that it isn’t done yet, that there is a ring that must go along with the promise to make it real and true, but she loves Fleur with all her heart and she doesn’t see that changing any time soon.  “I love you,” she says sitting up and pulling Fleur into a sitting position as well.  Fleur rests her forehead against Hermione’s own and Hermione continues, “We’ve been bonded, inadvertently, for a while now I think.”

“Ah…” Fleur says with a sheepish smile as she pulls a piece of hay from Hermione’s hair.  “Zat may ‘ave ‘appened, yes.”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice echoes across the yard before Hermione can press Fleur for the details.  “Fleur? Hermione?  Where have you got to? I need you to help take a tray up for Harry!”

They rise as one and Fleur hurriedly moves to remove all of the hay that’s gotten tangled in Hermione’s hair.  Hermione giggles and bats her hands away.  “I have to shower anyway,” she explains and Fleur just shakes her head, eyeing the doorway back into Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen. 

Ron is leaning in the doorway with a teasing grin on his face.  “Fancied a roll in the hay did you, ‘mione?” he says.

“Sod off,” Hermione replies tersely, and pulls a bit of hay from her hair.  She’s blushing, though; Fleur is too as she skirts around them and suggests quietly that maybe Harry would like to be woken up before he is inundated with his breakfast.

Their O.W.L. grades come later that afternoon, after Harry’s birthday present from Fred and George gives Hermione a rather spectacular black eye.  ( _Punching telescopes, honestly…_ )  Mrs. Weasley has just barely finished inspecting the injury when Hermione sees the trio of owls out of the kitchen window.  Fleur’s rather excellent distraction earlier had been enough to just about drive the thoughts of their exam results straight from her mind, but as she sees the three owls the panic sets right back in.  Her finger shakes and she finds herself squeaking just a little bit as Mrs. Weasley pulls her wand away from her black eye. 

The owls deliver their results and Hermione cannot help herself as she rips open the results with trembling fingers.  She unfolds the letter and reads her results, one, two, and then finally three times before she finally allows herself to breath.  There are ten perfect Os and one E.  She knew she could have done better in Defense. 

Harry and Ron have swapped results, and Ron’s punching Harry in the shoulder telling him he would be top at Defense. 

“Well done!” Mrs. Weasley says with pride.  She positively beams at him as she ruffles his hair affectionately.  “Seven O.W.L.s, that’s more than Fred and George got together!”

Ginny pulls on Hermione’s sleeve and she jerks out of the daze that she’s in, staring down at her O in Arithmancy.  “Hermione,” she asks tentatively.  “How did you do?”

Her voice sounds small when she speaks, like she’s trying to temper her own jubilation at the results.  “I—not too bad.”

Ron cross the room in two steps and pulls the results paper from her hand.  “Oh, come off it,” he says and reads the results.  “Yup, ten 'Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Defense.”  He stares down at her, his eyebrows furrowing as they usually do when he’s exasperated.  “You’re actually disappointed by that?”

She shakes her head and Harry’s laughing and it all seems so much better all of a sudden.  “We’re N.E.W.T. students now!” Ron proclaims happily, before he turns to his mother and asks if there’s any more breakfast to be had.  Hermione resists every urge to roll her eyes that she possibly can and somehow still manages to exchange a long look at Ginny before she disappears up the stairs to find Fleur (who was set with the task of delivering laundry to various rooms once Mrs. Weasley had cast scourgify on her a few times when she had caught sight of all the hay that was caught up in Fleur’s hair). 

~

Harry’s birthday is a great success but it comes with some rather dire news.  Professor Lupin, as well as Mr. Weasley and Bill have all told Harry more than he probably should know about the Order’s activities.  Hermione has pulled Ginny and Ron aside and told them both that it’s probably for the best that they let Harry deal with his grief to a point.  She doesn’t think that Harry will run off and try to find Bellatrix LeStrange, but she honestly wouldn’t put it past him.

“’e is filled wiz rage, non?” Fleur comments as Hermione and Ron share a long and meaningful glance some three days after Harry’s birthday.  “Il lui consomme…”she trails off then, a worried look drawing across her face as Harry leans in and speaks to Bill and Professor Lupin in a low voice on the other side of the Weasley’s kitchen.  Ollivander is gone from Diagon Alley, as is Florean Fortescue, the man who ran the ice cream shop there.  There’ve been killings and the former head of Durmstrang is among the dead. 

Hermione writes to Viktor and begs him to be careful, and Mrs. Weasley makes no protest when Fleur moves off the couch in the sitting room up to Ginny’s room.  Ginny has made them promise not to have sex or kiss or be gross, but Fleur is too tired most nights to do much other than cast an enlargement charm on the camp bed and curl up next to Hermione. She’s doing too much, Hermione tells her, and Fleur just shakes her head and says that there is too much that needs to be done for her to let others pick up the slack.

The Sunday after Harry’s birthday they prepare to go to Diagon Alley.  Bill and Fleur aren’t going, but Fleur’s exchanged some of the money her parents had given Hermione at Gringotts and Bill’s collected some funds for Harry as well.  Apparently it’s taking more than five or six hours at time for the public to get access to their gold.  The goblins are tightening security, which explains why both Fleur and Bill look dead on their feet most of the time, casting security wards takes a lot out of any witch or wizard. 

“We’re going to stay here and have a peaceful day where absolutely nothing bad happens,” Bill announces as Marietta joins them at the breakfast table.  “Should be nice.”

“I would zink so,” Fleur sniffs, before leaning over to ask Marietta a question in quick French.

Ginny looks almost murderous as Mrs. Weasley pulls them outside to see one of the special Ministry cars waiting for them.  Harry’s apparently been given number one protection status by the Ministry, and they’re apparently going to be met with more security when they arrive at the Leaky Cauldron.

When they arrive and find out that it’s Hagrid who’s going to be accompanying them, Hermione finds herself scowling a bit.  She still hasn’t really forgiven him for what had happened with his half-brother, or the Skrewts, or Norbert, or any of the other ridiculous, irresponsible things that he’d done that they’d had to help him get out of. 

Diagon Alley, as well as the Leaky Cauldron itself, is a ghost town.  Everywhere there are posters with information on the escaped Death Eaters as well as public notices about the general state of things and how best to protect against dark creatures.  There are even people selling what look to be dark detectors and amulets that protect against dementors and other dark creatures.  Hermione scoffs at the outrageous price that the wizened old witch is selling the amulets for and glances around. She has to find the master smith’s shop while she’s here, and she moves to nudge Ron to ask where it is.  She’s not sure if she can conceivably slip away to make her purchase when she notices that the shop is right next to Madam Malkin’s and Hagrid is leading them in that direction. 

“I’ll just nip in here for a second,” she says as Hagrid eyes the shop questioningly as Harry and Ron make to go into Madam Malkin’s.

“Now see ‘ere, Hermione,” Hagrid begins, but she’s smiling sweetly at him and backing into the shop without so much as a second word.

The store smells like silver polish and the air has the acidic taste of metal when Hermione takes a deep breath and heads towards the counter.  All over the store there are little display cases with small, perfectly crafted pieces of wizarding jewelry. 

Behind the counter a man is standing fiddling with a watch chain and a pair of pliers.  He sets it down on the rag that’s been laid across the glass display case he’s using as a workspace and pushes up his magnifying spectacles when he sees Hermione approach.  “Ah,” he says in an accent that might have been Scottish, but Hermione had never been particularly good with placing people to begin with, “You’re the lass that wrote about the veela ring.”

“How did you know?” Hermione asks, a little taken aback.

The man taps his neck absently with his pliers and Hermione’s fingers fly to where the necklace is visible at the collar of her jumper.  “I got your ring ready,” he says and bends to rummage for something under the counter.  “Though I must say that you look a wee bit young for such a thing.”

Hermione smiles tiredly at him.  “I get that a lot,” she says.

He grins at her, glasses perched like horns on top of his head, and surfaces with a small wooden box.  It’s intricately carved with an ouroboros and a series of runes that state what is probably supposed to be Hermione’s intent in giving such a gift.  Hermione finds herself almost wishing that it was phoenix on the box, rather than snake that is depicted.  She knows that the ouroboros represents eternity to many wizards and she is not afraid of such a thing. 

“It’s eleven galleons for this,” he explains, tapping the box with his wand and opening it to reveal the pale blue satin and the ring resting in a perfectly positioned space.  “Standard care, protean charms and self-adjusting size,” he winks at her, “as well as a congratulations for being a veela’s promised one from this smith.”

Hermione hands over the money with a grin and he closes the box and places it neatly into small bag that he hands over to Hermione along with a hand-written receipt.  She thanks him profusely and ducks back out of the shop only to run smack dab into Harry and Ron.  Ron presses a package into her hands and tells her to pay him back later as Harry hurriedly whispers that they’ve just seen Draco and Mrs. Malfoy.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Hermione whispers as she steers them toward the apothecary. “He’s bound to have to get robes for school and Madam Malkin’s is one of the best.”

“I know,” Ron whispers as Hermione buys two small bottles of dittany as well as the standard N.E.W.T. potions kit.  She can’t help but notice that both Harry and Ron do not buy any potions supplies, but she reasons that it’s because Professor Snape is notorious for only taking students who received Outstanding on their O.W.L.  Both Harry and Ron had received only E’s.  It’s a shame, really, because she knows how much Harry had had his heart set on being an auror. “But don’t you think it’s odd that he’s here on the very day that we’re here?”

Hermione shrugs, “Not really, no.”  She isn’t above believing in coincidences, at any rate.

They have made all their purchases but both Ron and Ginny insist on going to see Fred and George’s shop before they leave Diagon Alley.  It’s loud and brightly colored, everything that Hermione usually associates with the twins, completely with taunting signs insulting everyone from Voldemort to the Minister for Magic and back.  Hermione thinks that they have a death wish, as does Mrs. Weasley, but the more that Hermione peruses the shop, the more she realizes just how interesting and original the magic that Fred and George are using truly is.  She’s inspecting a display of daydream charms and is just complimenting them when Fred appears behind her wearing bright pink and tells her she can have one. 

“What’s happened to your eye?” Fred inquires.

“Your punching telescope,” Hermione grumbles, mad that her eye, despite Mrs. Weasley’s healing charms, still looks quite spectacularly bruised.

Fred flushes scarlet and plunges his hand into the pocket of his robes and hands her a jar of yellowy salve.  “Just put that on the bruise,” he explains.  “We had to find a decent bruise remover; most of the products here are self-tested.”

“It…” Hermione starts, sniffing the yellowy substance and desperately trying to remember if Fred or George was any good at potions while still at school.  “It is safe, isn’t it?”

“Course,” Fred says, before he pulls Harry off to give him a tour of the shop.  Hermione dabs the yellow stuff onto her eye and exhales as a pleasant, cool feeling overcomes the unpleasant throb of the bruise. She blinks at the salve and then shoves it into her bag with a thoughtful expression on her face.  Already the bruise is feeling better. 

Weasley’s Wizard Weezes is every bit the joke shop that Hermione had expected it to be, and yet, in a far-off corner of the shop, Hermione finds herself inspecting a series of products that look like they have absolutely no place in a joke shop.  There’s instant darkness powder, a stand of cloaks that are charmed to work like a powerful shield charm, as well as gloves that do a similar task.  Hermione’s eyebrows are raised as she moves towards the front of the store once more.  Who knew that Fred and George would have such good business sense?

Hermione thinks about her E in Defense and wonders if she is ever going to be good enough to protect Harry and Ron when the war inevitably comes.  She can’t protect anyone with such a poor score and so she collects five containers of the instant darkness powder and heads up to the counter to make her purchase.  She’s been almost unconsciously amassing supplies, she realizes as she puts them in her bag. 

Harry and Ron are staring out the window, and Hermione catches a glimpse of Draco Malfoy all on his own, heading down the alley.  “Musta ditched his mum,” Ron mutters as Harry pulls his invisibility cloak from his bag.  “Blimey,” Ron adds when Harry pulls it over his shoulders, “You don’t want to follow him do you?”

Cutting a hilarious picture, a head with no body attached, Harry nods, his expression grave.  “He’s up to something,” Harry says insistently. “We should find out what it is.”

Hermione doesn’t think much about it before she ducks under the cloak with Harry and Ron.  She’s done her fair share of spectacularly stupid things recently, but somehow she doesn’t think that following Draco Malfoy around Diagon Alley is all that dangerous.

~

Draco Malfoy, Hermione has to admit, probably is up to something. She talks Harry, Ron and Ginny around and around in circles over it, but she’s not above admitting that there could be a very good reason that Malfoy was having a private meeting in such an establishment.  She supposes with his father in jail technically he is the head of household and he probably has to handle his father’s business arrangements.  Hermione can’t imagine what it’s like for anyone to have their father shut up in jail, even if he is a truly awful person like Lucius Malfoy and she almost - _almost_ feels sorry for Draco.

She goes back and forth from the Burrow to Fleur’s flat for the final week of the holidays and tires not to think too hard about what they’d overheard at that ghastly shop.  She has other things on her mind, however.  The ring is in her pocket and she’s got half a mind to just put it down beside Fleur’s dinner one evening after she returns to Catterlily Place for the evening.  Mrs. Weasley is grateful, Hermione thinks that she has one less mouth to feed and Hermione wants to spend as much time with Fleur before she goes back to school.  She knows that hosting all those guests has to be something of a strain on the Weasley’s already precarious financial situation.

She stares down at the ouroboros on the box one evening as she waits for the water she’s put on for pasta to boil.  It circles slowly, the runes around it dancing in the half light of Fleur’s kitchen at twilight.  Hermione reads them almost reverently and grows so lost in them that she barely hears Fleur come in.

Fleur’s bag falls to the floor as she takes in the sight of Hermione standing next to a nearly-boiling pot of water on the stove and the box in her hands.  “’ermione,” Fleur says, shock clearly evident in her voice. “Qu'est-ce que dans vos mains?”

Hermione looks up and forces a smile onto her face.  She feels very out of sorts, all of a sudden, and more than a little anxious.  “This is the promise, isn’t it?” She looks down at the box in her hands.  “To bond with you?”  Hermione bites her lip as Fleur’s eyes widen and she hurriedly adds, "I know that you told me that we’d probably inadvertently started this process a long time ago – when you gave me this." She touches her necklace that’s hanging loose around her neck.  The shirt she’s wearing today is low cut enough as it is, it’s one of the new ones that her mother bought her when they’d gone out shopping and Hermione cannot help but wonder if it’s truly an appropriate thing to wear at school.

The line of Fleur’s jaw seems to harden and Hermione isn’t really sure but she thinks she starts to see a change in Fleur.  Her features go all avian for an instant and Hermione swallows before holding out the box, ouroboros and all.  "I know that I should respond in kind."

Fleur crosses to the stove and turns it off before she turns to face Hermione.  Her expression is unreadable, her eyes seem far off and distant and Hermione doesn’t know what it means.  She likes to think of herself as fairly observant, good at reading people even, but she stares into Fleur’s eyes and there is nothing.  “Zis… Ce n'est pas quelque chose à faire sans réflexion, you are young.  ‘ow do you know zat I am ze one for you?”

The ouroboros spins slowly on the box and Hermione holds it out again.  “I know,” she says in a small-sounding voice.  She doesn’t feel like a Gryffindor right now, and this is the most adult thing she’s ever done in her life.  Hermione swallows, “You are though.  You are the one.  I think you always have been.”

"You would be in toup - too much – danger," Fleur cautions, but her fingers are closed around the box and Hermione’s own trembling ones.

"I think I'm in that danger anyway,” Hermione replies with a wry smile.

"'e would know you, zey all would.  Zey would know what you 'ave done," Fleur’s eyes seem to light up then, and her fingers tighten around the box.  "If this is alright wiz you..."

"Fleur, I would have said yes, had you asked me properly then," Hermione insists and doesn’t find herself wondering at all if she’s telling the truth. She knows that she is and she is suddenly full of that same feeling of fear.  They’ve become so close, and they’re so completely and utterly gone for each other that it’s terrifying at times.  Hermione cannot think of what it would be like to be without Fleur, and she hopes she never has to entertain the idea.  She takes a deep breath and continues, "And I want to give you this as my own promise in return.  I've got to go away again.  Who knows what will happen in even a month's time."

Fleur seems to weigh this for a moment before she nods curtly and releases her hold on Hermione’s hand.  Hermione pushes the box into her outstretched fingers, feeling strangely confident all of a sudden. "Zen I say yes."

"Oh, really?"  Hermione can feel a smile erupt across her face that is so wide that she almost winces as Fleur stares at the box.  Her lips move silently as she reads the runes and traces the ouroboros with her finger.

“Ze soul of ze world?” Fleur asks.

“It never ends,” Hermione explains quietly. 

Fleur opens the box and takes the ring out and holds it in her palm.  “Zis, it is your promise?”

“Yes.”

The ring shimmers as it adjusts itself and shrinks to the size that will fit Fleur’s finger.  Fleur takes it and holds it to the light.  “You ‘ave done well, zis is flawless,” she holds the ring out to Hermione.  “Will you put it on?”

Hermione knows that there are words that she is supposed to say in this moment, but she cannot think of them. Her mind is completely blank as she takes the ring from Fleur and feels how warm it is in her hand.  It’s reacting to her magic, to Fleur’s magic as well, probably.  Hermione closes her eyes and slides it onto Fleur’s ring finger, knowing that this is sealing herself to a future that has no bounds.

~

Mrs. Weasley does not voice a protest when she sees the ring on Fleur’s finger, but she does pull Hermione aside as they’re getting ready to step onto Platform 9 ¾. “Hermione, dear.  I really do think you’re too young for such things, but if that is what you want, I’m happy for you,” she says and pulls Hermione into a tight hug. 

Somehow, the fact that she’s earned Mrs. Weasley’s somewhat-tacit approval is enough to make Hermione’s heart soar.

The dark circles under Fleur's eyes that morning had been enough to cause Hermione to add another spoonful of ground coffee to the press and glare sourly at it while she had watched it brew.  They'd been up half the night, fingers tangled together, bodies rocking against each other.  Hermione is glad that they're going back to school on a Sunday this year, because it means that they won't be rushed and Fleur won't be late to work to see her off.

"Someday soon," Fleur had said as Hermione watched the coffee brew before they prepared to floo over to the Burrow (Hermione had to collect Crookshanks and make sure that she'd gotten everything of her's out of Ginny and Ron's bedrooms), "You 'ave to meet mes parents."

"I have though," Hermione had replied, a little put-out that Fleur didn't remember.  Though she supposes that they'd all had other things on their mind that day.  "After the Third Task, I was in the hospital wing with them."  It was strange though, it all seemed as though it had happened so long ago now.  But she was sure that she'd introduced herself to Fleur's parents and had been polite enough.  She'd chewed nervously on her lip as Fleur just laughed and shook her head.

"I 'ad meant, meet zem properly," Fleur had waved a hand dismissively then, ring glinting on her finger in the weak, early-morning sunlight.  "Zey know of you, oui, mais..." Fleur had shaken her head again, hair tumbling over her shoulders and out from where she'd tucked it behind her ears.  "Zey know you as 'ermione, a friend from 'ogwarts.  Not 'ermione, ze one I made a promise to."

Hermione hadn't thought of it that way, and it weighted heavily on her mind for the rest of the morning.  She'd spent it rooting under Ginny and Ron's beds, finding several books, a pair of shoes she'd forgotten about and her favorite t-shirt of Fleur's that she hadn't realized she'd left there and wondering, not for the first time, if there was an easier way to pack for school.  Mrs. Weasley had put Fleur in charge of making sandwiches (roast beef and homemade cheese on dry rye bread that Hermione and Ginny had prepared the dough for the two days before) for the train.

Crookshanks had grown used to his summer as a mouser for the Weasleys.  He had taken one look at his carrying basket and bolted in the opposite direction.  The ensuing adventure to collect him and subsequent ' _accio Crookshanks_ ' from Mr. Weasley had them laughing all the way to King's Cross Station.  Crookshanks had _not_ been amused.

He still isn't, sitting in his carrying basket atop Hermione's charmed feather-light trunk.  He's hissing and spitting and looking very much like the kneazel that he's mixed with and not at all like a cat.  Hermione watches as Ginny leans in and then jumps away as Crookshanks' claws come dangerously close to taking out her eye. 

Mrs. Weasley's hug is tight and loving and Hermione can see her own parents just over Mrs. Weasley's shoulder and she feels a surge of anxiety at the sight of them.  Just up the platform, she can see the Parkinsons and the Notts and she hopes to God that they don't say or do anything.  She doesn't think she can explain it all to her parents before they have to get on the train.

She smiles and thanks Mrs. Weasley and heads over to speak to her parents.  They've got two wrapped packages with them and Hermione eyes them suspiciously as she draws level with them.  "Hello," she says, just a little breathlessly.  She's spent so little time at home over this past summer that she honestly feels as though she's somehow missed them.  They're just passing people in her life now, not at all like the parents that they were during her childhood.

Her mother hugs her and her father smiles cheerfully.  "We bought your birthday present," her mother explains. 

"Didn't think it was fair to ask an owl to carry it all the way to school," her father adds.  He sets the packages next to the still-hissing Crookshanks and pulls her into a hug of his own.  "You can open it on the train, if you'd like.  There's a card - don't want to ruin the surprise."

Hermione nods and then Fleur's come up to them with a book in her hands.  Hermione's mother's eyes narrow as she catches sight of the ring on Fleur's finger and Hermione gives the smallest of shrugs, stepping back and gratefully welcoming Fleur into their little circle of conversation.  "I 'ad wanted to give you zis," Fleur explains, offering the book to Hermione's father.  "I know zat it is not much, but zis is ze book zat my grandmozer recommended for you boz."  Hermione peers at the cover with a grin.  Fleur had brought it home from work a few days before, all smiles and completely convinced that she had found the perfect way to ingratiate herself with Hermione's parents. 

"This is a book about what... you are?" Her father says with all the tact of Harry or Ron.  Hermione groans quietly and debates the merits of spotting a group of errant humdingers to drive her parents away from Fleur.  Luna, she thinks, would at least be somewhat willing to help her story along.

Fleur, to her credit, doesn't seem that put out by his comment.  "My grandmozer, you mean.  I am only a quarter.  I cannot do many of ze zings..."  she trails off and takes the book back.  There are a few of Hermione's favorite sticky flags poking out of the book, marking pages, she assumes.  "I 'ave marked ze chapters zat are of interest."

"Oh excellent," Hermione's mother announces and pulls Fleur into a hug.  "Really, I can't thank you enough for being so willing to help us with our ignorance, Fleur.  I know it must be really taxing."

Behind her, Hermione is nearly certain that Ginny (and maybe Ron and Harry as well) is sniggering.  Tossers.

Still trapped in the hug, Fleur shrugs and looks, by Hermione's estimation, like she wants to crawl away somewhere to die of mortification.  Hermione might very well join her. 

They say their goodbyes to Hermione's parents and Hermione waits until they've left the platform all together before she turns to Fleur and hugs her as tightly as she dares. There are people all around them now, crushing forward to get to the train as the hour ticks down closer to the inevitable departure.

"I don't want to go," she whispers again.  It should be easier to do this for a second time, but it's not.  Hermione knows she's got a flare for the dramatic at times, but she's finding it really hard not to cry.  Fleur's wiping away her tears and smiling sadly at her.  The dark circles under both their eyes are only going to get worse and Hermione cannot imagine another year of this, let alone two.

The train whistle blows its warning call and Hermione kisses Fleur just once.  It's the brief sort of kiss that she thinks she can get away with in public.  She's been raised in a world that doesn't really accept people like herself, but no one on the platform pays them much mind at all.  Fleur is soft and warm against the cool air on the platform. 

"I will write," Hermione promises, and Fleur nods. "I don't know if..." she trails off and casts a nervous look towards where Ron and Harry and shoving her trunk onto the train.  "Hogsmeade visits are going to be the same this year with everything that's happening."

Fleur bites her lip and nods solemnly.  "It would seem zat we cannot know," she presses her lips to Hermione's forehead.  She says something then, her lips pressed against Hermione's forehead.  It's in no language that Hermione's ever heard before, and Fleur doesn't tell her what it means with her usual self-conscious smile afterwards.  Hermione wonders if it's a veela way of saying goodbye that she simply hasn't read about, but the train whistle shrills one more time and Hermione throws her arms around Fleur's shoulders. 

"I'll see you soon, I promise," she says, and dashes for the train. 

She asks Ginny to keep an eye on Crookshanks and drags Ron to the front of the train, her heart heavy against her chest.  She doesn't _want_ do to go a prefect's meeting, she doesn't really want to do much of anything but sit and mope about until she can pull herself together enough to realize that Dumbledore is at Hogwarts, which should equate to some sort of protection extended to the village as well. She'll see Fleur soon and it will all be okay.

There are new faces and old in the meeting, Pansy Parkinson turns her nose up and folds her arms across her chest as Hermione awkwardly sits down next to her for lack of anywhere else to sit.  Ron is eyeing them both and their assignments are handed out.  They're to patrol the school with their old pairs - and the fifth year prefects can be assigned partners.  Hermione eyes Pansy and sighs.  This is going to be a long year.

~

The new lessons are absolutely fascinating, full of new expectations and a slate of coursework far more challenging than Hermione’s had to handle in school as of yet.  Hermione wakes up after an anxious night of tossing and turning in her bed feeling absolutely sure that she knows which classes she is going to take.  Padma and Lavender are up half the night discussing which N.E.W.T.s they'd like to take and Pansy Parkinson had flat-out demanded to know if Hermione was going to continue Arithmancy during their patrol.

"I want to know how big the class is going to be," Pansy had explained, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at the wall some three feet from Hermione.

"I will be," Hermione says with a far-from-polite smile, and then Pansy informs her that she had received an Outstanding on the exam as well (she hadn't bothered to ask what Hermione had gotten) and that she hoped Hermione's muggle heritage would allow her to keep up with the more advanced proofs.

Hermione had replied, perhaps a little more snippily than she'd intended, that if Pansy pulled her nose out of _Witch Weekly_ for more than a minute she'd maybe give Ernie MacMillian a run for his money.  Pansy had looked scandalized, as Ernie is pants at Arithmancy.  They’d finished their patrol in stony silence and Hermione had turned her nose up to Pansy before they’d left each other in the middle of the third floor that was the end of their patrol.

Professor McGonagall doesn’t ask Hermione what classes she’s taking, but rather which ones she’s dropping.  Hermione tells her that she plans on dropping Astronomy, History of Magic and Care of Magical Creatures and Professor McGonagall nods.  “Have you given any more thought to your post-N.E.W.T. studies,” she asks as she taps her wand to a blank parchment and hands Hermione her schedule. 

Hermione shakes her head, because she hasn’t thought of much other than the war and what on earth she’s going to do if her parents won’t listen to her when she tells them to get out of England. “I haven’t,” she explains, taking her schedule and hurrying off to her first period Ancient Runes class. 

Out of all her classes, Hermione finds that she is desperately curious to see what Professor Snape is like, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.  She thinks it’s a rather shrewd move of Dumbledore to make, because Snape is obviously the best available save Dumbledore himself to actually instruct the class.  Harry’s told her bits and pieces of things that Sirius and Professor Lupin have mentioned to him about Snape’s prowess with the Dark Arts themselves. She thinks it only stands to reason that Snape would be skilled at Defense as well. 

Wordless incantations are now expected in all of their classes and Hermione finds herself facing up against Neville and a series of muttered stunning spells while she attempts to cast _protego_.  Snape has explained the lesson and expects the class to be conducted in silence that would make sense for Potions, but seems out of place for Defense.  Neville isn’t actually casting the stunners silently, and while Hermione manages to actually produce a silent shield charm, it goes without notice.

Harry’s mouth gets him a detention with Snape that is quickly canceled out by a note from Dumbledore that she, Ron and Harry all spend their lunch period debating.  Dumbledore has said that he’s going to teach Harry lessons, and Hermione desperately wishes that she could go with him to hear what it is that Dumbledore has to say.  Harry’s already told them that Dumbledore wants both Ron and herself to know about what is said and taught during these meetings, but she really would rather get her information first hand, rather than second hand.  Harry tends to… fixate on things that turn out to be inconsequential in the long run.  They all remember the Snape-is-Voldemort incident from the entirety of First Year.

Still, after their shared free period that afternoon, Hermione is pleased when Ron and Harry follow her down to the dungeons for Potions.  Apparently Professor Slughorn has less stringent standards than Professor Snape does when it comes to his N.E.W.T.-level students and their E’s are considered decent enough grades to get in.  Ron’s already owled his mum for Fred and George’s old copy of _Advanced Potions Making_ , but Harry’s without a book for the time being.  Hermione hopes that Slughorn is friendlier about under-preparedness than Snape is.  She’s not sure Harry needs any more detentions.

She has to stifle a groan when she sees that Ernie MacMillian has achieved the necessary marks to progress in Potions.  He’s really not her favorite person and after Arithmancy earlier, she wishes that she didn’t have to see him again for a while.  (She and Pansy had exchanged eye rolls when he asked Professor Vector to go over a fourth-year equation for review.)

Professor Slughorn has potions set up on each of the long work tables, Hermione follows Harry and Ron to sit with Ernie MacMillian (much to her dismay) as the Slytherins and Ravenclaws have all sat together.  She recognizes some of the potions, the one on the table in front of Harry smells like expensive French perfume, old books, coffee and just the barest hint of the cellar smell that she’s come to associate with the vault space of Gringtotts – all smells that she’s come to associate very strongly with Fleur.  This has to be a love potion of some sort, and, judging by the way that Harry’s wrinkling his nose, he has absolutely no idea what he’s smelling.

Hermione realizes later that she’s been perhaps a bit too enthusiastic as she correctly identifies all of the potions that are brewing throughout the classroom.  Harry and Ron (not to mention the Slytherins) are all giving her exasperated looks, but Professor Slughorn seems charmed as the class progresses. He awards her twenty points, and Hermione’s slightly pink when Slughorn mentions to the class at large that Harry’d told him that she was the best in their year.  

“What?” Ron demands in a whisper that earns them an alarmed glance from one of the Ravenclaws.  “It’s not like it isn’t true.”

Hermione can see the rigid line of Draco Malfoy’s back grow even stiffer, ramrod straight and clearly seething.  She struggles to hide a smile.

By the end of the class it is her back that is ramrod straight and her temper that is rising.  She _knows_ that Snape is a terrible teacher and that his poor teaching skills are what have driven this class down from its former size to a mere twelve people.  This doesn’t mean, however, that Harry should appear a bloody potions savant all of a sudden. 

Ron's always been at least somewhat decent at Potions.  With Harry it comes in waves: he either gets it and prepares the potion correctly, or he buggers the whole thing from the start. Usually his mistakes are because of environmental concerns, as his theory is pretty sound.  Hermione knows that Harry's a decent cook and thinks that this skill might translate into some proficiency at potions.

But he's not even following the directions and his potion is utterly perfect!  Hermione puffs out her cheeks in frustration as she stirs her potion.  The steam is doing absolutely nothing for her hair and it's already frizzing every-which-way. She tries not to ground loudly as Harry trails his finger down the instructions – covered as they are in messy, spindly handwriting, and modifies his recipe accordingly.   

When they’re done brewing Slughorn gives Harry a bottle of felix felicis as his potion is clearly the best, and Hermione sighs.  She supposes that she can't really blame anyone but herself for losing such a competition, even if harry wasn’t even following the recipe in the first place.

Harry and Ron talk in excited whispers over dinner about the felix felicis and what Harry should do with it.  When Hermione asks Harry why he wasn’t following the instructions as they were listed in the book, Harry pulls out his text book and shows it to her excitedly.  “There’s loads of suggestions all over it,” he explains, turning to the title page.  They both lean in to read what has been scrawled there, ‘ _this book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince_ ’ and Hermione finds herself backing away, a frown on her face.

“Haven’t we learned that we shouldn’t trust instructions from magical artifacts where we can’t determine where they keep their brains?” Hermione asks mildly.  When Harry and Ron scowl at her she adds, “As soon as your book comes from Flourish and Blotts you should return it to Professor Slughorn.  It’s a bad idea to keep it, I think.”

“You’re no fun,” Ron grouses, and Hermione eats a piece of broccoli with her eyebrows raised, daring him to argue with her logic.

Harry and Ron ignore her for the rest of the meal. Hermione eats quickly and beats a hasty retreat to the library while it's still quiet. There are a few things she wants to look up before they have to start their work for the evening. 

She finds the books on the cart where she left them the night before, five advanced charms books, all lined in a row.  Madame Pince must have known that she wasn't done with them somehow.  There are two on memory charms, three on charms for practical, everyday use.  Hermione desperately hopes that she'll never have to use the first two. 

She settles down in one of the overstuffed armchairs and pulls _Charmed Everyday_ into her lap.  The page she's looking for describes extension charms, usually used to accommodate guests into rooms that are too small to usually accommodate them.  Hermione thinks she can modify the spell, but she's not entirely sure how to go about it.  She pushes all thoughts of Harry and Slughorn and Potions class from her mind, and starts to read.

~

All of the professors expect non-verbal spell casting now.  Hermione finds herself drained at the end of most days, sitting in her room and going through first and second year spells, making sure that she’s got the incantation down.  It’s something to do that does not involve prefect patrols with Pansy Parkinson (they’ve been paired together again much to their mutual disdain) or watching Harry and Ron waste away their days and not revise or study at all.

Fleur's writing her what feels like daily.  She's engaged the services of a little owl much like Pigwidgeon, only her notes assure Hermione that her owl is actually a native of France and has been sent over by an overprotective father to ensure that Fleur keeps in better communication with all of her loved-ones.  Professor Grubly-Plank had taught them that little owls were not native to Britain originally in preparation for their Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. during Hagrid's absence at the beginning of the year last year.

Fleur's letters to Hermione are full of the sorts of words that Hermione finds herself wanting to hear as she becomes increasingly buried in the vast amount of work that is expected of N.E.W.T. students.  Hermione has found herself debating, on more than one occasion, dropping a subject to give herself a reasonable level of work, but she can't decide which one to drop and ends up shouldering the work anyway.

The morning of her birthday dawns dark and stormy, and rain lashes at the windows of Gryffindor Tower as Hermione sets the two packages that her parents gave her at the train station on her bed and opens them while Parvati and Lavender go about getting ready for their days.

"Oh wow," Lavender comments as Hermione finds herself staring in the face of wizarding record player.  How her parents had ever known she'll have no idea, but there's moving type on the instructions and a note from her parents.

_Dearest Hermione,_

_When I was young, we didn't have much.  Britain was still trying to put itself back together after many years of long and devastating war.  The one thing that we did have was music, on the wireless and records._

_You told us after your first year that non-magical things like electronics did not work at your school, so we wrote to the Weasleys and got a recommendation of a magical player that would also play normal records._

_I've included some of your favorites from when you were young._

_Never forget that music is its own form of magic,  
Mum ( & Dad)_

The second package is a collection of ten records.  Her mum was right, these are her favorites.  She traces over the still faces John Lennon the rest of the Beatles, and flips to see that her mother has added a copy of _Spice_ and had affixed a note to it with spellotape.  _You were singing along when we were out shopping this summer, I thought you - and your friends -  might appreciate some more modern music as well._

"Muggle music?" Lavender asks and Hermione is almost tempted to roll her eyes at her, because she's a bit of a ninny and Hermione has started to find the fact that she giggles _incessantly_ whenever Ron says something even remotely funny rather grating.  "Will it even work here?"

"It's a wizarding player," Hermione explains as Parvati flips through the records with interest.  "I dunno how mum and dad knew."

"They're your parents," Lavender replies with a grin.  "They're supposed to know you better than anyone else."

Hermione bites her lip, because there have been a lot of times recently when she's thought that they really don't know her at all. They've grown apart, and Hermione's become more and more drawn into the magical world as they remain wholly grounded in the muggle one.  "I suppose you're right," she says.

Parvati's inspecting the back cover of _Jazz_ with interest.  "Do you mind if we give them a listen, maybe tonight, after the quidditch trials?"  She glances at Lavender and then adds, "I know that Padma's got some of the Weird Sisters' albums because Ravenclaw common room has a gramophone.  I could ask her to bring them."

"Sure," Hermione says brightly.  They'd been planning on going to visit Hagrid that evening, but it was a Saturday night.  They'd be up late regardless. 

She's of age now.  An adult in the wizarding world. The realization weighs heavily on her as she follows Lavender and Parvati down to the common room.  Ginny's waiting for her at the door and engulfs her in a tight hug and a fierce whisper of birthday well-wishes.  Hermione hugs Ginny back just as tight and thanks her earnestly. 

Harry and Ron come down a few minutes later, Harry with a quiet inquiry as to what it was that her parents had given her before they'd gotten on the train and Ron with more birthday back thumps and hugs than Hermione is prepared to handle.  Hermione tells Harry excitedly about how her parents have gotten her the record player and how it's a wizarding one.  "Parvati and Lavender want to have a listen tonight," she explains, glancing towards the window and hoping that the rain will let up before Harry's quidditch trials after lunch.  "I thought... after Hagrid's..."

Harry grins at her and nods his agreement, while Ron scratches at his unshaved chin and scowls at the rain outside.  "Hope it lets up," he mutters.  "I hate being wet."

At breakfast Hermione finds two letters waiting at her usual place at the table and Fleur's little owl nowhere in sight.  The Great Hall is dark with the rain outside and Hermione scowls up at it for a moment before opening the first letter.  She has half a mind to cast lumos to read it more clearly, and squints in the dim light from the enchanted ceiling above.

_Mlle. Granger,_ the looping script does not belong to Fleur, or anyone Hermione knows.  Hermione feels her stomach start to turn as she reads the next few lines of the letter.  Her heart thuds in her chest.  She hadn't considered that they might not approve...

_My daughter has written us to inform us of her intent and promise to you, and your returning of both towards her.  While I do believe that salutations may be deserved, you are both very young and there is trouble brewing in your country that Fleur should have no part in. As her parents, we believe that it is your presence and relationship with her that are causing her uncharacteristic lapses in judgment._

_The problem is that I know my daughter.  I know that if she is as in love with you as her letters state then there is no changing her mind, but surely you must know that she is in more and more danger with every passing moment that she spends in your country.  So I write this to you as a plea from one who loves her to another: tell Fleur to come home.  It is safe here, for the time being.  She would be able to work for one of the banks in Paris and she would be able to continue her education, I have assurances in regards to this._  

Fleur’s mother has signed the letter and enclosed her address.  Hermione reaches for her tea and stares down at the letter in her hand.  She has absolutely no idea what she’s supposed to do with such a plea. She knows that Fleur will never leave England, not until the war is over.  She’s as stubborn as Hermione and when she’s set her mind to something, she sees it through.  A fond smile creeps over Hermione’s face as she thinks about Fleur and her not-so-subtle claims over Hermione’s free time during Fourth Year. 

“Birthday letter?” Ginny asks, sliding down to sit next to Hermione and reaching for some toast.

Hermione shakes her head and sets down her tea.  “It’s from Fleur’s mum, actually.” 

Ginny, toast half-way to her mouth, freezes.  Her eyes narrow and she glances at the letter. “What’s it about then?”

“She wants Fleur to go back to France,” Hermione sighs.  “And I understand why, really I do.  It makes more sense than it doesn’t, which is what gets me.”

“You know you’re not going to be able to tell Fleur what to do, right?” Ginny points out, and Ron, who has been listening in from Hermione’s other side (and probably read the letter over her shoulder) grunts his agreement.

“Stubborn one, that.”

“Thank you, Ronald,” Hermione says testily as he stuffs a sausage into his mouth.  “I’m going to respond to it,” she announces, mind made up.  “Fleur’s mother should know that I have absolutely no intention of stopping Fleur from fighting in this war if that’s what she wants.”

Ron thumps her on the back.  “Good on you,” he says loudly, and Hermione winces.  Ron is sixteen and his back thumps hurt more and more with every passing year.  She nudges him with her elbow and he backs away hurriedly, “Sorry,” he adds.

Hermione smiles, though, because the other letter is from Fleur, with plans for the first Hogsmeade weekend and birthday wishes.  She can worry about writing Fleur’s mum back later.

_~_

Hermione writes Fleur's mother back with a derisive flair that she can't quite surprises in her writing.  She cannot help the fact that Fleur's mother doesn't know her daughter very well at all if she thinks that Fleur will back down from the war.  The letter still takes significant editing after she finishes it, and by the time she's finally borrowed a hardy-looking school owl to take the letter across the channel, it's grown significantly in size.

Hermione watches the owl go with worry etched on her face, wondering if she's done the right thing.  She's informed Fleur's mother that she cannot, in good conscience, force her will onto Fleur, no matter how much she agrees that Fleur would be safer away from British soil.  Fleur is her own person, she explains.  She chose to come back to England after the Triwizard Tournament for her own reasons.  Hermione could not say that she didn't factor into those reasons, but certainly she was not the only one.  Fleur and Cedric had been good friends, with a great deal of mutual respect for each other.  Gringotts International was offering her a chance to continue her education while offering her a job with standing within the wizarding community.  Her English was improving in leaps and bounds.

Hermione knows that it will fall onto deaf ears.  She understands parents better than she probably should, her own parents' letters are becoming more and more infrequent as she becomes increasingly tight-lipped about what is happening in the wizarding world.  She wants them out of Britain, but cannot think of a way to get them out willingly.  They _cannot_ know who she is.  It isn't safe, even if they're on the other side of the world.

Her two library books on memory charms and the magical-medical application of them weigh heavily on her mind as she hikes her bag further up her shoulder and picks her way down from the owlery in the steady early October drizzle.

The news of the first Hogsmeade weekend is passed around with considerably less notice than in previous years.  Hermione and Harry both figure that it’s a safety precaution while Ron wonders to the common room at large if Harry will even be allowed to go.

“Well,” he explains as Harry glares at him and Hermione rolls her eyes.  “Think about it.  The village isn’t exactly safe.  It’s not private and protected like the school – anyone can go there.”

Harry frowns and flicks his wand, whispering one of the new spells that he’s read in his Potions text book.  Hermione wants to tell him that he shouldn’t be trying to use strange spells without knowing what they do first, but this particular one she doesn’t mind.  It’s a privacy screening spell that’s easy to caste and easy to banish.  It’s perfect for private conversations like this.  “I’ll bring my invisibility cloak for good measure,” he explains in the quiet tone that he usually uses when he doesn’t want to be overheard, despite the spell muffling them.  “Is Fleur meeting up with you there?”

Hermione nods.  Fleur had written her in response to Hermione’s letter just following her birthday to tell her that she would be in Hogsmeade for the visit.  “She heard it from Tonks, or maybe Tonks’ dad, and wrote me to tell me that they’re keeping the date quiet until right before so as to avoid any potential attacks.  She didn’t even include the date, just that she’d be at the Three Broomsticks waiting for me at eleven.”

“Blimey,” Ron says, eyes wide.  “You’ll have all day then.”

Her cheeks color slightly and Hermione fixes him with a steady glare.  “That is the point,” she says and watches with something akin to amusement as Harry and Ron’s eyes widen and Ron’s ears turn a violent shade of red. 

The morning of the visit Hermione finds herself thinking about what Harry’s told her of the conversation he’d had with Dumbledore a few weeks ago.  She wishes that Harry could use a penseive and show them the memories that way instead of just retelling the story.  There’s probably loads of personal bias and details that Harry would have missed.  Still, the origins of Tom Riddle are somewhat tragic, and they make Hermione uncomfortable to think about.  The idea of a love potion and then a poor woman being stuck in an ignorant household in that day and age – pregnant!  The very idea makes her shudder when she thinks about it.

She’s never really given much thought to children, honestly.  She supposes that she’d like some, somewhere down the line.  With Fleur, definitely.  She doesn’t know – and her veela book has no information on veela families that she can see.

She spends breakfast stewing over Harry's newly discovered spell out of his _Advanced Potions Making_ book and blithely ignores him as she tries to engage her in conversation.  "I wish you'd've given that book back," she mutters and busies herself with her tea. 

It's a losing battle.  Harry is absolutely fascinated by this figure, and the more Harry talks about him, the more Hermione is reminded of the stories of second year and Tom Riddle's diary.  The whole thing stinks of something and she can't quite put her finger on what.  She's checked the school logs and photos in the library; the only Prince who's come through the school in the last fifty years was a girl who didn't seem nearly remarkable enough to be a potions expert.  Hermione lets out an exasperated sigh and heads down to the village with Luna and Neville - ignoring Harry's glaring at her and shooting disapproving looks at Ron who really should be on her side about all this. 

"Are you meeting Fleur?" Luna asks in her dreamy voice as they lean forward into the wind and the rain and are grateful for the waterproofing spells that Professor McGonagall insisted they cast on themselves before leaving. 

"Mn," Hermione says, eying the grim-faced aurors who are watching the students with uneasy eyes as they pick their way down to the village.

"Zonkos..." Neville begins, stopping dead in his tracks and staring at the boarded up storefront. Privately, Hermione is glad about this for several reasons, most importantly that it means that Fred and George’s shop will probably be experiencing a book in owl orders, but also because it means that maybe her prefect duties will be free of mischief-making magical objects for a few weeks until Fred and George can fill all of the orders. 

“They’ll be back,” Luna says wisely, because not even Hermione can doubt the staying power of a company like that.  “Don’t worry about it,” she says and turns to Neville.  “I need to go to the post office,” she announces, her eyes wide and her lips quirking upwards into a dreamlike smile.  Neville offers her his arm and they vanish off up the high street.

Hermione stands for a minute in the cold and the rain, shivering despite the warming and impervious spells she has cast upon herself.  The weather has turned quickly this year, and Hermione is secretly dreading having to go to Gryffindor quidditch matches as the days drag on.  She cuts down towards the Three Broomsticks and pauses at a book seller to purchase yesterday’s copy of _The Guardian_ , grateful that there are enough people with interest in muggle politics this far away from London.  She wants to see if there’s been any movement by the government on behalf of what’s been reported in the _Prophet_ and also to check on the build up to what she’s sure is going to be end up in being a call for elections. 

She tucks the newspaper into her bag and hurries down to the pub, pushing the door open and exhaling as her whole body seemed to start to steam as she stepped into the warm and bright of the place.  Hermione spots Fleur almost instantly, sitting at the bar talking to an auror that she doesn’t know but has seen in passing a few times at Grimmauld Place.  Hermione can feel herself bouncing on the balls of her feet as she heads towards Fleur and she feels her own smile widen as Fleur’s grin seems to light up the whole room. 

“Hello,” Hermione says, just a little breathlessly.  She can’t help herself, not really.  She’s not sure what it means as the auror beside Fleur pushes off the bar with a small wave and a promise of ‘we’ll discuss it later’ and she doesn’t want to ask because Fleur’s kissing her for the entire pub to see and Hermione doesn’t really find herself caring. 

“Salut,” Fleur says after a minute, pulling away and grinning at her, all teeth and bright smiles.  Hermione throws her arms around Fleur and just breathes.  Fleur holds her there, wet cloaks and the low murmur of conversation around them.  Fleur’s nose presses into the half-dry frizz of Hermione’s hair and she asks quietly, “Did you maybe want to dry your cloak, I ‘ave a room.”

Hermione’s fingers tangle in Fleur’s and she lets herself be lead up to the second floor of the Three Broomsticks, away from the commotion downstairs.  Fleur doesn’t say anything when Hermione pulls out her wand and conjures a fire into the fireplace before she sheds her cloak and drapes it over the back of the lone chair in the room.  She leans against the door, her jacket discarded to the hook on the back, watching Hermione as she uses magic for the first time out of school. 

“It is good, to be of age, non?” Fleur asks after Hermione turns to face her.  Her eyes are soft today, all pale blue and welcoming.  Hermione sometimes feels as though she’ll melt into them if she looks for too long.  Not today, though.  Today she lets herself step forward and into Fleur’s arms once more, just her jumper and Fleur’s shirt between them.  And Fleur is _there_ where she hasn’t been for over a month and Hermione finds that the grin on her face won’t quite fade as Fleur kisses her again.  This time it’s slower, more deliberate, with tongue and teeth and enough to make Hermione’s toes curl as she is pulled back towards the bed and a realization of all that she has missed.

They’ve just barely finished, Hermione flat on her back and breathless when there’s a quiet knock on the door.  “Hermione, put some clothes on, I need to talk to you.”  It’s Ron’s voice and there’s another in a lower tone, Harry must be there too.  Hermione has half a mind to tell them to bugger off, but she hasn’t heard Ron sound that worried in a long time.

“ _Merde…_ ,” Fleur mumbles emphatically, reaching for her shirt from where Hermione had thrown it towards the end of the bed.  She pulls it over her head and Hermione fiddles with her jumper and runs a half-hearted hand through her hair only to peek through her fingers to see Fleur staring at her.  “Zose boys,” she says, shaking her head.

“I’m _really_ sorry,” Hermione says, tugging on her trousers and getting off of the bed.  She hasn’t got any knickers on and she can feel what they’ve just done acutely as she checks to make sure that Fleur’s at least made an effort to not look well and truly shagged, even if she hasn’t.  “What?” she demands, throwing open the door to reveal a drenched and bedraggled Harry and Ron, dripping all over Madame Rosmerta’s carpet.

Both of them start talking at once:

“Katie’s been cursed!” Ron began.  “Right in the middle of the high street!”

“Someone’s nicking Sirius’ things!” Harry added, folding is arms across his chest.  “And they’re taking Katie up to the school.  Hagrid says everyone has to go back.”

Hermione takes a step backwards and picks up her wand from the end of the bed and casts the strongest drying charms she knows on the pair of them and pulls them inside without a word. 

“’arry,” Fleur says with the sort of serene smile that would make Luna jealous.  Hermione gapes at her as she settles herself more comfortably on the bed, hair mussed and lips still swollen.  Fleur notices her looking and winks, before bridging her fingers over her knee and continuing, “Ronald, it is good to see you boz again.”

“’lo Fleur,” Ron says awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as Hermione folds her arms across her chest and waits for someone to start making sense.

Harry nods at Fleur and waves his wand, casting the muffling charm that Hermione’s still trying to be disapproving of, even if she’s a bit preoccupied with what Ron’s said about Katie (Bell, Hermione assumes – she’s the only one in Gryffindor) and wondering what it all means.  She puffs out her cheeks but Ron shoots her a warning look and Hermione doesn’t object.

“We were downstairs,” Harry explains, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “It’s really cold out there, you know?  Anyway, we ran into Mundungus Fletcher, who’s apparently been nicking stuff from Sirius’ house.”

“Denied it,” Ron puts in, “but we know that seal anywhere, spend enough time cleaning up that bloody house.”

“Did you notice if ‘e was selling it?” Fleur asks mildly.  “Zese old familie objects ‘ave an ‘abit of taking on ze personalities of zeir owners.”  Her eyes narrow a little and Hermione finds herself grinning.  “I do not imagine zat it will end well for Monsieur Fletcher.”

“I think it was part of that cursed dinner set,” Ron explains and Hermione winces, thinking of the battle that Bill, Fleur, Professor Lupin and Sirius had had to do on that particular series of cabinets in the kitchen to make the place habitable again. They'd been cursed with a spell that Bill had determined (after disappearing for three days into the Gringotts' library) to be some sort of variant on a series of dark spells based on blood.  It was like a game of Russian Roulette with crockery, every fifth dish had a nasty curse that would take effect if the person using the dish had even the slightest of impure thoughts towards one of non-wizarding decent.  At the time, Hermione had thought it odd that the curse extended to those of creature ancestry, but Sirius had informed her that the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black was one of the few wizarding households that also prided themselves on being pure human on top of the usual blood purity nonsense. 

Fleur had spluttered at this, and she had Sirius had had a very tense few days following that until Sirius had sat her down and explained to her that while his family was off their collective nut, he didn't hold those sorts of opinions.  Fleur had looked considerably happier after that, and Hermione had spent several hours sitting with her the drawing room of Grimmauld Place talking about what Sirius had said. 

Now when Hermione thinks about those tense few days, all she can think about is Bellatrix's knife against her neck and the hissing laugh at her being even more abnormal than most muggles.  It was never the fact that they were girls - it was everything else.  Hermione hated that her own upbringing was so different.  There were gay and lesbian couples in London - in her home town even - but it was the _gayness_ , rather than the racial element that bothered people. Fleur, and when she thought about it, and everyone, really; couldn't seem to comprehend that there were people in the muggle world who weren't accepting.  Hermione had never struggled with openness, not really, but there was still that second sense that she was somehow different in the looks that Ron and Harry were giving her and Fleur now.  The knowing smirk and slightly red cheeks that Hermione knew had nothing to do with the bitter cold outside.

She forces herself to pay attention, as Ron continues hurriedly, “But that’s not the half of it – Mundungus gave us the slip and we were chasing him up the road-“

“Without bothering to find someone who’d be willing to cast an impervious or warming charm on you,” Hermione adds helpfully, smiling at her two friends and taking in Fleur's little amused laugh. 

“Didn’t have time.  We saw Katie and her friend arguing with each other and then … I dunno,” Ron shrugs and looks to Harry.

His face is screwed up into an expression that Hermione thinks is torn between curiosity, worry and the healthy dose of panic that she's grown to expect from him whenever something bad happens at Hogwarts.  She understands that on many levels, Hogwarts is supposed to be safe.  Hermione's read all about the various wards and protections that have been interwoven into the very stones that the school is built upon in _Hogwarts: A History_.  It's supposed to be a place where the children are protected, even though Hermione's five years at school have told her that it is really anything but that. 

“It looked like that same necklace that Malfoy bought from Borgin and Burkes this summer,” Harry says quickly.  He glances at Fleur, who’s eyebrows are raised but is showing no outward disapproval of their following Malfoy down into Knockturn Alley.  “Katie flew up into the air and then went all still.  I ran and found Hagrid, and he brought her up to the castle.  The aurors started to mobilize after that and we were told we had to go back up to the school.  We figured we’d better get you before they realized that you hadn't come back.”  Harry turns to Fleur and adds, “Sorry.”

Fleur sighs and stands, crossing the room in a few easy strides to pick up her boots from where she'd toed them off.  She pulls them on without socks pauses, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder for just a moment.  "You should not be going into places like Knockturn Alley, 'arry," Hermione can hear the amusement barely hidden in her voice and she bends to rummage for her socks.  Disappointment is ringing in her ears, despite the fact that she's somewhat preoccupied with what’s happened to Katie Bell. 

"We'll er-" Ron says, grabbing Harry's shoulder and pulling him back out towards the door.  "We'll wait in the hall."

"Merci," Fleur says coolly at him and Hermione raises an eyebrow at her as the door closes behind Ron and Harry.  Fleur lets out a frustrated sigh and slumps on the bed.  "Zis..." she mutters, lacing up her boots angrily.  "Zis is not fair."

Hermione sits down beside her and rests her head on Fleur's shoulder, drinking in her smell and the warmth of her.  She's missed this more than she dares to say and she hates this so much.  "Why was I a fool to fall in love you when I still had so much school left?" Hermione asks with a bitter smile.

"Et au milieu d'une guerre," Fleur shakes her head, white blonde hair falling into her eyes and across Hermione's cheek.  "It was not ze smartest zing we 'ave ever done."

"Certainly not," Hermione agrees with a wide and silly smile.  It is awful and their relationship is going to suffer because of the war.  They both know it and they've discussed it at great length over the summer.

They sit there for a few brief seconds before there's another knock on the door and Harry's voice calls, "Come on you two, I don't want to start a manhunt when we don't turn up at the headcount."

Hermione sighs and pushes herself to her feet.  She tucks her wand up her jumper sleeve and bends to pick up her cloak.  "Your mum wrote me," she says quietly, not wanting it to carry through the door.

She can see the line of Fleur's back stiffen as she pulls her jumper over her head.  She cuts an almost comical figure, head and shoulders hidden by the pale blue of the sweater, her back ramrod straight.

"Two weeks ago," Hermione adds quickly.  Merlin, it felt like longer than that.

"What did she want?" Fleur asks quietly, but there's a danger in her voice and Hermione knew that she should have included the detail in her response to Fleur's birthday letter.  She kicks herself mentally and tries not to read too much into the fact that Fleur seems to be bracing for the proverbial axe to fall.

Hermione swallows and picks up her cloak, fingers clinging to the damp wool fabric and the ever-present crackle of magic as if it's a lifeline.  "She wanted you to go home; I told her that you could make your own decisions."  Hermione sniffs and adds, "She seemed to be under the impression that I was the only reason you were here."

"You are," Fleur whispers fiercely.  She turns to Hermione and all Hermione can see is the fierceness in Fleur's icy eyes and the drawing out of her features - half-avian in the firelight.  She crosses the room to stand before Hermione in three quick strides. Hermione's breath catches, because this is not Fleur, not entirely. This is the part of her that she doesn't let out that much, the part that Hermione finds endlessly fascinating and just a little terrified.  Fleur's fingers catch under her chin and she tips Hermione's eyes upward to meet her own, stormy blue and full of an intensity that sends a shiver down Hermione's spine. 

"You are mine," Fleur explains, her accent becoming almost more pronounced as she says the words. "And I am yours.  I will protect you.  It is the promise we made."

Hermione rises up onto her toes and kisses her.  It's all that she can think of to do, and it feels so good to reassure this part of Fleur.  She wants to linger, she knows that she can't and she hates it.  She steps back reluctantly after far too short of a time pressed up against Fleur and presses her finger to Fleur's lips.  "I would never tell you to leave," Hermione promises. 

Ron pounds again and Hermione throws her cloak over her shoulders with a sheepish smile.  "I'm really sorry," she says.

"De rien," Fleur shrugs, fastening her own cloak and pulling out her wand.  She opens the door and sends a nonverbal dousing spell towards the fire. It sizzles and cracks as Hermione casts warming and impervious charms over herself before turning to do them on Harry and Ron.

When they, too, give Fleur sheepish looks, Fleur says exasperatedly, "You cannot control zat someone got cursed." 

~

They move Katie Bell to Saint Mungo's after a few days and Hermione spends most of her free time during the following weeks in the library, researching her extension charm modification.  She's pretty sure that she's got the arithmancy down correctly and has sent Fleur at least twenty-four inches of parchment on her other research project.  Memory charms are ghastly, but Hermione knows that she has to learn how to use them this year.  She hesitates to think of why she feels so compelled to master them, but with each letter from her parents that sits beside the news of attacks and dire warnings in the _Prophet_ Hermione can see few options beside that one. 

Fleur has sent back helpful suggestions, but she is still convinced that Hermione's parents will leave of their own accord if Hermione asks them to.  Hermione isn't sure.  She's already worked out with Harry and Ron that she's going to spend Christmas Eve at least with her parents and then go to the Burrow on Christmas Day.  Fleur is going to attempt to talk to Dumbledore about helping her arrange a permit to apparate home for the holiday.  They've determined that it'll probably be the best way to at least calm Fleur's mother's worries. 

After the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch Match, Hermione finds herself watching in horror as Lavender Brown attempts to suck Ron's tongue out of his mouth, victorious keeper that he is.  Harry'd tricked him with his bottle of felix felicis that Hermione still thinks he cheated in winning from Professor Slughorn.  She rolls her eyes as Ginny makes helpful gagging noises beside her and Harry stares at the pair of them, bewildered. 

"That's nasty," Harry groans.  "Does she need to do that here, in the middle of the common room?"

Hermione shrugs and goes back to the letter she's writing to her mother regarding Christmas plans.  She's grateful that Harry's given his Draco-Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater theory a rest for the night, instead choosing to act appropriately horrified at Ron's first (very public) snog. 

"Ugh, and I thought Slughorn's parties were bad," Ginny mutters and Hermione shakes her head.  She's been going in body over, her mind stuck on memory charms and arithmancy equations to alter the very base nature of a spell to render it untraceable and execute on a much wider scale than she'd initially intended.  She's met some interesting people at the parties, but mostly it's just Slughorn fawning over all the well-connected prats in their year. 

There is, also, a good deal of nicked fire whiskey punch-spiking and snogging going on amongst her peers.  Hermione's caught Ginny and Dean a few times and is having quite a hard time adjusting to the fact that Ginny apparently likes kissing just as much as Hermione does.  She doesn't dare as her if she's gone further than that, if she's being safe.  She figures that Ginny should know the charms.  She's nearly sixteen, after all. 

Hermione sets her quill down half-listening to Ginny tell Harry that there's no way he can dodge Slughorn's Christmas party. She doesn’t suppose that she can get a special pass for Fleur to come with her to the party and she can't very well go stag.  She sighs loudly, thinking that Slughorn's enough of a newshound to recognize Fleur's name and her losing finish in the Triwizard Tournament.  He'd never let her come, no matter who she was. 

"I don't have anyone to go with, Gin," Harry's saying.  "Are you?"

"With Dean," Ginny says curtly.  Hermione can hear the hurt there and inwardly sighs.  Harry's too wrapped up in Quidditch and Voldemort and Draco Malfoy to realize that Ginny would drop Dean in a heartbeat for him.  And Hermione feels really bad for Dean about it.

"Are you going, Hermione?"  Harry asks hopefully.

"Yes I am," Hermione replies, and then adds quickly.  "But before you ask, I'll be going alone.  It isn't proper to have a girlfriend and go to a party with someone else as a date.  You'll just have to find someone else."

"Could bring Ron," Harry mutters, glancing over to where Lavender is now sitting in Ron's lap, her tongue still in his mouth.  "On second thought..."

"Quite," Hermione agrees and picks up her quill, going back to her letter.

The following week the weather starts to turn for the worse.  Rain and snow pelt the windows and the castle becomes cold and drafty.  Hermione casts warming charms on her warmest socks and wears gloves as she and Pansy Parkinson do their rounds during the evening. 

"Are you going to Slughorn's party?" Pansy asks one evening about a week before the date of the event.  She's shivering beside Hermione in a deserted hallway on the fourth floor near the prefect's bathroom.  They've been checking classrooms for nearly an hour, noting students studying and breaking up a few skirmishes and snog sessions.  Hermione's freezing and is bouncing from toe to toe to keep herself warm, watching Pansy with one eye out of habit. 

"Yes," Hermione replies.  "Why?"

"I haven't got an invite," Pansy grouses, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at the floor somewhere three feet to Hermione's left.  "Draco doesn't seem to want to do much of anything these days and I don't even know if he's _going_."

"I'm sorry," is all Hermione can think to say.  She doesn't know what _she's_ supposed to do about it, anyway.  "It didn't seem worth it to ask for a pass for Fleur to come," she adds in what she hopes is a sympathetic tone. 

Pansy's smile becomes wicked, "Spare her the embarrassment of having to defend her poor performance because she was too busy snogging you to properly prepare for the Triwizard Tournament?"

Hermione bites the inside of her lip so hard it starts to bleed, and she manages to control herself when she responds.  "Something like that, yes," she says, scowling at Pansy.  "She's really busy at this time of year, what with Christmas and all."

"Everyone just has to get their best cursed dinner plates out of the vaults for Yule," Pansy rolls her eyes.  "I don't envy her, mucking around underground all day."

"She seems to like it," Hermione shrugs.

Pansy sticks her nose up in the air and says haughtily, "I figured, Granger, it's not the sort of work one does if one minds getting their hands dirty."

They continue up the hallway in silence, checking the bathrooms quickly before heading towards the stairs.  Hermione eyes a secret passage that she'd usually take to get to the next floor near the classrooms, but she doesn’t know if Pansy knows about it and resolves to keep her knowledge to herself despite the cold.

"Could I go with you?"  Pansy asks when they reach the top of the stairs.  "Strictly to get in the door, don't want to be seen with you, naturally."

Hermione stares at her.  _Of all the nerve..._ She folds her arms across her chest and glares at Pansy defiantly, refusing to even acknowledge the question outside of the irritated look she now wears. Still, it is an interesting concept. It would mean that Pansy Parkinson would owe her a favor, and Hermione knows that Slytherins rarely offer such things without considering the repercussions for their actions.  Hermione thinks of her arithmancy questions and Pansy’ knowledge of the subject  in relation to her own and her brow furrows.

“It’s highly improper to ask someone who is in a relationship with someone else to a party,” Hermione says loftily, inspecting her nails in the cold corridor.  The wind is howling outside and rain is lashing against the narrow windows that line this particular hallway. 

Pansy’s eyes narrow and she stares at Hermione for what seems like an eternity before she finally nods imperceptivity.  “I am aware of that,” she begins, her tone haughty.  She looks down at her feet and then at the rain and sleet outside.  “I happen to believe that it is probably better to be there than to not be there, however, and am willing to ask for certain favors in order to be there.”

Not wanting to leave anything to chance, Hermione says, “And you’d leave me at the door and not speak to me again?”

“Just say you’re my arithmancy partner and Delacour couldn’t make it because of her job,” Pansy shrugs. “She doesn’t strike me as the jealous type, Delacour.”

Hermione sighs, because Pansy _really_ doesn’t know Fleur very well at all if she thinks that she’s not the jealous type.  It’s not Fleur’s rational side that Hermione’s worried about, at any length.  It’s the veela side, the slightly wild aspect of Fleur’s nature that Hermione’s never quite managed to get a good handle on.  Hermione is already planning her owl to Fleur, explaining her arithmancy problem (Fleur personally loathes the subject and only keeps her skills up because it can be handy in curse breaking on occasion) and how doing this favor for Pansy might get her the second pair of eyes that she needs on the spell before she attempts it. 

“I’ll think about it,” Hermione announces, and walks up the hall and checks the empty rooms carefully, not caring that Pansy is staring after her, a curious expression on her face.

The next morning, during her free period opposite ancient runes, Hermione writes Fleur a short note explaining the situation.  She spares no details and sends the letter off before hurrying down to the library to sit with Harry and Ron as they work through some of Professor Snape’s incredibly complicated homework.  Harry’s knowledge of defense is coming in particularly handy, and as they practice the spells in the assigned chapter, Harry tells them about his most recent meeting with Professor Dumbledore.

He’s been sharing memories with Harry that have apparently been painstakingly collected, regarding the childhood of the boy who would grow up to be Voldemort.  Not for the first time, Hermione wishes that she and Ron would be invited along to see the memories as well, instead of having to get their information second hand from Harry.  There’s still a great deal of insight that Hermione’s gaining with every session Harry describes.

Voldemort, apparently, placed a great deal of value on objects that bore meaning to him.  Hermione finds this endlessly fascinating, because explains a lot about the diary that Harry destroyed during second year that had caused all that trouble. 

They’ve just about mastered a complex counter jinx when the bell tolls in the distance and they have to head to class.  Hermione’s pretty sure that Snape won’t take points for weak attempts, so long as they can actually defend against it.  With him though, nothing is certain.  The man’s moods are notoriously foul.

The following morning, Hermione has a note back from Fleur telling her that she shouldn’t worry about stupid fits of teenage jealously and that Hermione is free to manipulate her classmates however she sees fit.  Lavender Brown watches her from her place next to Ron across the table and asks why Hermione’s grinning.  Hermione shrugs, “I just got some good news,” she says excitedly and glances over her shoulder.

Across the Great Hall, sitting beside two small-looking first year Slytherins, Pansy Parkinson is sipping a mug of tea and eyeing the Gryffindor table.  Hermione gives the smallest of nods before turning back to Lavender and adding, “What are your plans for the hols?” 

“Mum’s family’s going to be in town,” Lavender replies, eyeing Ron with a look that speaks volume about Lavender’s disappointment on not being invited to the Burrow for Christmas dinner.  This has been the subject of several tearful rants to Parvati that have had Hermione sitting on Harry’s bed in the boy’s dormitory just to get some peace and quiet while she studies.

Ron stiffens beside Lavender and shoots Hermione a reproachful look.  Hermione’s sorry to have brought it up, but she knows that she has to cover her glance towards the Slytherin table somehow, and a pensive scan of the Great Hall usually works for things like that.  Harry, to her right, nudges her with his elbow and Hermione shrugs.  She’s not about to start this up again, so she quickly adds, “That’s nice, your cousins too?”  Lavender comes from a large family, so a full house is something she’s familiar with. 

“Think just a few,” Lavender replies, picking up a piece of toast. “What with You Know Who and all, they’re afraid to travel too far from home.”

Hermione nods, because she understands that feeling rather well.

~

Slughorn’s party is rather uneventful, save for what Harry overhears Snape and Malfoy talking about in the corridor afterwards.  It adds a lot of weight to Harry’s Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater theory, but that’s all the credit that Hermione and Ron are going to give him before he discusses it with Professor Dumbledore. They all know full-well that Professor Snape is a spy for the Order of the Phoenix and Hermione knows that if Malfoy is indeed a Death Eater, he’s a very young and therefore unimportant one.  Snape might, Hermione argues to Harry, even be trying to get Draco out of that situation before he can become too entangled with it.

Hermione takes Pansy no further than the door and slips the arithmancy equation and the spell it’s in relation to into Pansy’s obnoxiously pink dress robe pocket and thinks nothing of it.  Maybe it will give Pansy something to think about over the holidays.  No one seems to notice that they arrived at nearly the same time, Hermione lingering a half-second in the door under the pretext of fixing her shoe to stagger their arrival times slightly.  Harry’s brought Luna and Hermione spends an entertaining evening with the pair of them, talking about nonsense and drinking mulled cider and the spiked punch while dodging Professor Slughorn.

The final days of the term seem to blend together and Hermione finds herself weaving through the crowd at King’s Cross Station looking for her parents before she knows it.  Fleur’s already in France and Bill’s promised to come retrieve her Christmas morning in case there’s some sort of a problem with Fleur’s returning International Apparation Permit. 

Hermione waves goodbye to Harry and Ron as she follows her parents out of the barrier and towards the carpark.  It’s warmer in London than it was at Hogwarts, but it’s still bitterly cold.  Her father and mother both look about is cold as Hermione feels and they don’t really talk much at all until they’re safely bundled into the car and Hermione has assured her mother that Crookshanks will be much happier mousing for the house elves than traveling back and forth over a fairly short Christmastime holiday. 

“You look tired,” her mother says to her, peering around to stare at Hermione as her dad starts the car and heads out into the heart of the London traffic. 

Hermione sighs and scrubs a hand across her face.  “It’s been a long term,” she says wearily.

Her parents nod their heads in acknowledgment and launch into easy conversation about the coming holiday and the rush of patients they’ve been attempting to see before their office closes for the few days leading up to Christmas before reopening after Boxing Day.  Hermione half-listens and stares out the car window, watching the countryside whir past and wondering if this is the last time she’ll ever take a trip like this.

Fleur’s letters regarding memory charms have been helpful, but Hermione knows that whatever she does, she first has to attempt to reason with her parents.  She has to tell them the truth and hope that they’re not too stubborn to listen and get out of England while there’s still time.  She knows that the families of muggleborns are the first who are going to be attacked and she knows that her friendship with Harry is going to paint a target as bright as the sun on her parents’ backs.  Hermione worries her lip and wonders if telling them straight away is better, or if she should wait.

In the end, she tells them over dinner.  She explains the attacks and how Voldemort is amassing an army that he’ll turn loose whenever he sees fit and how a lot of people have already gone into hiding.  She tells them how Mr. Olivander is missing from Diagon Alley and of the boarded-up shop windows that now line the streets all over wizarding Britain. 

"Why don't people fight back?" her father demands when Hermione finds herself shockingly without any more words to impress the imminent danger that they are all in.  "I mean, isn't that you have a police force and a government?"

Hermione sighs and pulls out her wand.  "The problem is," she explains quietly, wordlessly summoning one of the glass baubles from the Christmas tree that’s been set up in the corner of the room to float in the air before her.  "It isn't really so simple to track down someone who doesn't want to be found.  There are ways of making places and people untraceable.  I could charm this ornament to vanish before your eyes, but it would still be there."  Hermione flicks her wand and banishes the ornament back from whence it came.  "No, the solution is to take out the very heart of the rebellion - it worked nicely the last time around."

"So the group that Fleur and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are a part of is trying to do just that?" Her mother clarifies.  "I still don't see what it has to do with us, Hermione, dear."

Realization echoes in her ears and they seem to be filled with a strange sort of rushing sound that Hermione can't ever remember hearing before.  Her eyes are narrowed and she feels like she's under Bellatrix LeStrange's knife again. They're not going to go, they're not going to take her advice and get out of England while they still can. "You are my mum and dad," Hermione says desperately.  "They'll see you as a way to get to me!"  She closes her eyes and waits, but when her parents are oddly silent, she adds hurriedly, "And they'll use me to get to Harry.  Or to Dumbledore, or someone else that I care about."

Her parents share a long look and finally her mother asks, "Do you need to be a part of this?  Could you leave the school?  You're of age now, right?"

She bristles and scowls, looking down at her hands. Pride is a flaw of all Gryffindors, and she has it in spades.  It's hard for her to ask for help, harder still to acknowledge that she had weaknesses.  Hermione, will, however, defend her importance to Harry to her last breath.  "Harry Potter would be dead or expelled or in Azkaban if it wasn't for Ron and I," she says hotly.  "If you think I'm going to not finish what I've been up to my neck in since I was eleven..."

"We're not," her father cuts in. His eyes are soft, kind, full of emotion that Hermione almost never sees.  It takes her a moment to realize what it is, to realize that its fear and worry and desperation all rolled into one.  She swallows hotly as her father lays a hand on her knee and speaks once more.  "We're just saying that you don't have to."

_But if I don't, who will?_ The question rattles about in Hermione's head along with the memory charms and expansion charms and Fleur Delacour.  She doesn't think that there are many other options, and she won't abandon Fleur or Harry or the Weasleys to this fight.  This is a fight about her, much more so than it's a fight about Harry or Ron.  She's the one that is always singled out as _other_ , after all.

The summer before her third year, Hermione read every book she could find on Greek mythology and philosophy following a particularly interesting lecture in Professor Binns' class.  Somewhere in the works of Plato, there was a quote that's always stuck with her, and she says it without thinking now.  "He is a man of courage who does not run away, but remains at his post and fights against the enemy."  Hermione smiles sheepishly at both of her parents, seeing her own face all mixed up between the two of them, drawn and far too worried.  "Or, in my case, a woman."

Her parents say nothing and Hermione feels something within her break, just a little bit.  She's always found that muggles are better at seeing the cold logic in things, where wizards don't seem to comprehend it because magic defies the very basic premises of logic.  It's logical for her to want her parents to be safe, logical _and_ reasonable.  What is illogical is them wanting her to run away and hide from a fight she's been preparing for since she was eleven.  "So many people are afraid.  I'm afraid.  But I know that I need to stand and fight.  I need to inspire others to do the same.  So many people remember what it was like before, and they remember the fear.  I want to fight against that darkness, I want to help Harry."  She levels her gaze on her parents and adds, "And I want you to be safe and away from here.  You don't have magic.  You have no way of protecting yourself, not against them."

Her mother's muffled sob is the first indication that Hermione might have gotten through to them, but she turns to her husband and laughs sadly, "She's quoting philosophy at us to make her points."  It's followed by almost hysterical laughter, desperate and forced, and Hermione wishes that she'd gone ahead and taken her apparation test early so she could leave this stifling sitting room and the feeling of utter helplessness far behind her.  Instead she sits, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa and staring at her mother and father, worry etched across her face. 

"When did you grow up so much, dear?" Her mother continues and Hermione looks from her mother to her father and back again.

"I..." she begins.

"I think you're worrying over nothing, Hermione," her father says, standing up and offering his hand to her mother.  "Things like this blow over in time, look at Germany.  They're happily reunited as once country now, no hard feelings at all."

Hermione personally thinks that this is a terribly naive view of that particular conflict, and her mind drifts to the various muggle newspapers that she's caught glimpses of over the summer and during the school year.  Dean Tomas' mum sends him the football scores every weekend and usually will include any interesting clippings that Hermione will read over his shoulder.  There are countries that are reacting violently to the Soviets failing.  Viktor has written her about how Bulgaria isn't faring that well, there's war in what was once Yugoslavia. 

It all seems so surreal.

And Hermione knows that she'd better get very, very good, at memory charms.

~

When it is Fleur, rather than Bill, who comes to fetch Hermione Christmas Morning, Hermione finds that she can’t quite put into words how she feels.  She’s happy to see Fleur, yes.  She’s always happy to see Fleur.  There’s a sense of finality about leaving her parent’s house right now that she can’t really put her finger on.  She’s made up her mind about what she’s going to have to do and she hates herself for having to make the choice.  Still, she can’t find the words to say goodbye to her parents, hugging them and wishing them a happy Christmas instead. 

Fleur’s face is drawn and worried as she waits just inside Hermione’s bedroom door for Hermione to pack her things, this time using the packing spell that she’s seen Mrs. Weasley use several times now.  Her things fly about the room, shrinking and adjusting themselves to fit adequately in her trunk. The spell is strong, and it takes a lot out of her as she concentrates long and hard to hold the spell in place. 

“Zat was razer impressive,” Fleur comments quietly when Hermione spells her trunk feather light and turns to smile at her.  At the end of her bed is the present her parents have given her, a photo album full of pictures from her childhood.  She’s spent the morning looking through it, taking in the pictures and ticket stubs and little notes from her parents about those days long past.  As she grows older, the time that elapses between the pictures becomes starkly apparent and Hermione hates how there are so few pictures from the recent years.  Mrs. Weasley has some, as does Fleur – and Hermione’s sure that if she were to ask Colin Creevy that he’d have some as well. 

Fleur flicks her wand and shrinks Hermione’s trunk and Hermione steps towards the bed to pick up the album.  She holds it to her chest like a shield as she follows Fleur down the stairs to say her goodbyes to her parents. 

And then, almost too soon, they’re out in the cold, wintry morning and Fleur’s leaning against Hermione with a sad sort of smile on her face.  “Zey will not leave zen?”

Sometimes, it shocks Hermione how perceptive Fleur is.  She nods slowly and sighs, taking Fleur’s gloved hand when it is offered to her.  The familiar tug of apparation pulls them away from the place that Hermione’s always thought of as home and into the warm arms of the one person who has come to represent that to her. 

Fleur takes them to her apartment in Catterlily Place first, appearing in the hallway just outside the apartment door.  She steadies Hermione as they land, and moves her wand carefully over the door, a glowing pale green spell signature rising from the door in runes Hermione only half-recognizes and guesses is a pretty nasty curse.  Fleur begins to lower the wards one by one and finally pulls a key ring from her pocket and unlocks the door.

The apartment smells dusty and almost unused.  Hermione isn’t sure how much time Fleur’s spent away, but Fleur turns own the small hallway towards the bedroom and is spelling Hermione’s trunk and her own luggage back to its normal size as Hermione sags against the door once she’s closed and locked it. 

The weight of the world seems like it’s on her shoulders and she doesn’t quite know what to say to Fleur as she fiddles with her coat and sets the photo album down on the kitchen table.  Fleur’s brought many of the plants that she’d had lining the balcony inside now, and they line the floor along the walls underneath the wide windows that have Hermione so charmed with this apartment. 

“They won’t leave – they think it’ll blow over.  My dad likened it to _Germany_ ,” Hermione sighs and slumps down onto the sofa, her gaze barely rising to meet Fleur’s own as she comes back into the room.  “I don’t think I have much of a choice,” she adds, sharing down at her wand resting in her lap.

“I wonder…” Fleur begins, coming to sit down beside Hermione.  They don’t have much time; the Weasleys are expecting them both for Christmas dinner.  “I wonder if it is a family problem, ze not listening to ze children.”

Hermione glances at her sideways.  “That bad?”

Fleur shakes her head, the few tendrils of hair that have escaped the braid she’d got it pulled up into flutter around her pale cheeks and Hermione can’t quite stop herself from staring.  “Maman…” she sighs and sounds almost exasperated.  “She zinks zat you are ze one who is making me stay – and no matter ‘ow many words I use to tell ‘er zat it is _my_ choice to stay, she will not listen.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says quietly. The insecurity grips her and she feels a pang of need, knowing that if Fleur’s parents don’t accept her promise then the whole thing will be off.  The veela book that Fleur gave her has a chapter on unions that are not sanctioned by the matriarch of the veela family, and the implications that follow such a match.  Hermione doesn’t want Fleur to lose her family, she knows how desperately she misses them, even if the war is slowly destroying their family just as its destroying Hermione’s own. 

“My grandmozer, ‘owever, est extatique,” Fleur continues with a wry smile.  “She was razer active during ze first war and ze resistance to Grindlewald… I suppose zat it is her opinion zat matters ze most, maman cannot disobey her wishes – well, not overtly.”

A smile so wide her cheeks hurt blossoms across Hermione’s face and she leans over, not caring that they are late for Christmas dinner at the Burrow or that the couch is dusty and the windows are wide open, and kisses Fleur hard. Fleur’s fingers tangle in her hair and her lips are pressed hotly against Hermione’s as she pulls Hermione more fully onto her lap.  The pressure as her legs straddle Fleur’s waist, even through her jeans, is enough to make Hermione’s breath hitch and push Fleur back against the sofa, wanting to touch more. 

Fleur’s tongue flicks a curious path as her lips lower to come and rest on Hermione’s neck.  They linger on the scar from Bellatrix’s knife, gentle kisses soothing the skin that still aches.  Hermione wraps her arms around Fleur, wanting to be closer, wanting to feel and to make sure that Fleur understands just how much it means to her that they have at least tacit approval from her grandmother. 

“Nous allons être en retard,” Fleur whispers in Hermione’s ear as she pushes cool hands up and underneath Hermione’s shirt.  Hermione shivers as Fleur’s tongue darts out and sighs breathily as Fleur’s lips close around her earlobe, reveling in the feeling of being touched. She is aware, perhaps far more than usual, of the cool metal that encircles Fleur’s finger and of the corresponding silver chain around her neck. 

“They’ll understand,” Hermione gasps out.  Fleur’s fingers have slipped under her bra now, and Fleur’s kissing her again.  This time there is tongue and teeth and everything that Hermione’s been looking for.  It’s a desperate kiss, the sort that says far more than it leaves unsaid.  Hermione gasps and whimpers into the kiss as Fleur’s thumbs trace circles around her nipples under her bra.  The sensation of quickly warming fingers and the friction of fabric and hands and touch has Hermione’s hips rocking into Fleur and Fleur’s rocking right back. 

Hermione’s eyes widen as she feels that firmness there and she tears herself away from the kiss to watch as a lazy smirk blossoms across Fleur’s face.  “You didn’t…” she says and Fleur merely arches an eyebrow and indicates that Hermione should lie down on the couch.

She rises on shaky legs and undoes her jeans and hurriedly pulls them off, realizing that her shoes are still laced tightly to her feet when they’re down around her knees.  She toes off her shoes hurriedly and kicks the jeans away before dropping to her knees on the cold, dusty floor of the apartment and reaching for Fleur’s belt.  How she’d managed to do this in the time that she’d been in the other room restoring their bags to normal size and weight is anyone’s guess, but Hermione is certainly not complaining.

Magic truly is a fascinating thing, she thinks, fumbling as Fleur’s fingers tangle once more in her hair.  It’s a magical phallus, she’s read enough books to know that this is how lesbians sometimes have sex.  They’ve done it before, and she liked it then too, but there’s a strange sort of feeling that comes over Hermione as she’s on her knees between Fleur’s legs.  She undoes the buttons on Fleur’s pants slowly, watching her with curious eyes as an idea that is certainly not inspired by the old copies of Busty and Bewitched that she’d found underneath Ron’s bed last summer (and certainly had not flipped through to satisfy her curiosity) comes to her. 

Swallowing, Hermione glances up at Fleur, her fingers closing around the enchanted object she has strapped between her legs.  Fleur’s eyes flutter shut and her lips part slightly as Hermione trails curious fingers up and down the phallus.  “Does that feel good?” she asks and Fleur’s blue eyes open once more. 

She smiles down at Hermione, her fingers tangling more tightly in Hermione’s hair as she nods slowly.  “It is enchanted,” she says as Hermione doesn’t stop the slow, gentle caress of her fingers up and down the length of the toy.  “You know zat it does.”

A little smile ghosts across Hermione’s face and she leans forward, thinking of how much Fleur likes it when Hermione uses her mouth.  She places a slow, gentle kiss on the tip of the toy, tongue flicking out and marveling at how warm and _real_ it seems.  Above her, Fleur lets out a strangled sort of a gasp, her head falls back against the sofa and her fingers tighten in Hermione’s hair.  Taking this as a good reaction and once more deciding that she absolutely loves magic, Hermione sucks the head of it  into her mouth and flicks her gaze upwards once more.

The expression that’s come over Fleur’s face is one that Hermione will remember for a long time.  It is one of almost complete bliss and Hermione reasons that she is going to have to try this out at some point in the near future, because she wants to know what it’s like to experience magical pleasure like that.  She sucks and teases and holds Fleur’s hips firmly down as they threaten to buck up into her. 

“’ermione,” Fleur groans and tugs on Hermione’s shirt, pulling up away from her task and back up into Fleur’s lap.  The hardness of the phallus presses against Hermione’s stomach and she can’t help it as she rolls her hips into it, gasping a little at how utterly turned on she is by this.  Fleur’s kissing her then, fingers moving from her head to her back to cup her arse and Hermione is rocking back into her.

Suddenly there’s cool air on her arse and Hermione pulls back, startled, “Did you just banish my underwear?” she demands as Fleur lowers the wand that she’s produced from her shirt sleeve holster.  There’s a wicked sort of a twinkle in Fleur’s eye and Hermione wiggles as the cool air touches the skin on her bottom. 

“Perhaps…” Fleur says without the least bit of remorse, and rocks her hips forward.  She leans forward and catches Hermione’s necklace in her hand, using it to gently pull Hermione back to her and to kiss her firmly, tongue pressing forward and teeth worrying on Hermione’s bottom lip.  Hermione rises up onto her knees then, and the firmness of the phallus comes to rest, close, oh so close, to where Hermione wants it to be.

“Fleur-”Hermione drags herself away from the kiss and glances down between them, to where she’s lost her pants and Fleur’s are undone and the toy is bobbing obscenely between Fleur’s legs.  Hermione bites her lip, eyes flicking up to meet Fleur’s and she is nearly overcome with want.  She wants it so badly, to feel it between her legs and inside of her. 

Bracing herself with one hand on the back of the dusty couch, Hermione tips her hips forward and uses her free hand to guide the phallus to her entrance.  Her eyes never leave Fleur’s as she slowly pushes her hips forward and lowers herself until it is fully inside of her, warming her, filling her.  It feels so good, like this.  Hermione knows that it would be like this with a man, because that is how sex with them works.  Somehow, though, it’s different with Fleur, different and far more powerful and oh Merlin…

Fleur’s hips rise gently up and into Hermione and Hermione rocks forward to meet Fleur’s thrust.  She doesn’t look away from Fleur, even when Fleur’s hands come to rest greedily on her arse once more.  Hermione rocks into Fleur and lets herself be taken, had, whatever this is truly called in the language of sex.  She kisses Fleur with as much gusto as she can muster as her breath is stolen from her with each push of Fleur’s hips up and into her. 

The angle is so deliciously perfect and Hermione rolls her hips and doesn’t think about how they’re late and it really won’t do to show up to the Weasley’s with banished knickers and looking thoroughly shagged, but she finds that she doesn’t not care as Fleur’s pace increases and the lips that she’s kissed swollen latch onto her pulse point and suck until Hermione can barely think at all. 

She comes in a whirlwind of gasps and whispers in French of words that she barely remembers learning.  Fleur’s lips are smiling against her neck and her pace doesn’t slow.  Hermione rides out the orgasm as Fleur crests into her own and goes limp beneath her.  The smell of sex and heavy breathing fills the room and as Hermione sits back and meets Fleur’s eyes, she can see the easy smile there. 

“I missed you,” she mumbles into Fleur’s lips as she kisses her once more.  “I love you.”

“Always,” Fleur replies.

They are, needless to say, rather late to the Weasley’s and Christmas Dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> \- This chapter was getting to be entirely too long to be posted as one solid part, plus, I really felt bad for taking as long as I did to get this much to you. This chapter is the first of two that deals with HBP, also where there's a great deal more divergence from canon as I cannot stomach writing the Hermione and Ron grossness that was HBP. So, I have created analogs and hopefully they're pretty obvious right now. They'll continue on into the next part.
> 
> \- I've read (and written) many different versions of veela lore and veela mating and what have you, and I'm trying to do something unique with this story. The hints at Fleur's baser nature is there, but they're not all-encompassing and all-ruling like I had them in _Golden Haze_. Fleur's book on veela that she gives to Hermione at the beginning of the last installment is indeed charmed to only display pertinent information. 
> 
> \- Pansy Parkinson's skill at arithmancy is shamelessly yoinked from the wonderfully hilarious fanfic _Matching Muff Matrimony_ by Eloise Lovelace. While we all know that Hermione is top in the year at Hogwarts, there are students in all subjects that give her a run for her money (except maybe charms). Malfoy is very good at Potions, Harry's the best at Defense, Neville the herbology guy, it seems natural that Hermione would vie for top position in the elective classes that she doesn't share with Harry and Ron as well. 
> 
> \- My view of arithmancy in general is that it is the language that is used to express spells in a theoretical sense, rather like physics and mathematics as a whole are used in the muggle world. I wanted to illustrate how one would go about altering a spell to be, say, untraceable, and also demonstrate how the process is not at all easy as it's made out to be in the books. Because let's get real, it probably isn't that easy. 
> 
> \- I really struggled in finding a balance with Hermione's parents regarding the memory charm that Hermione used on them in _Deathly Hallows_. It was said so dismissively in the books and it's always really bothered me because it seems rather obvious to me that, as an only child, Hermione is probably fairly close to her parents. Because HP is originally told from Harry's point of view, I've made an effort to include more of Hermione's parents and try to drive home just how difficult a decision it was for Hermione to make, when she finally does erase herself from their minds. Also, given what we know about memory charms, I wanted to make her process of learning them rather drawn out, as it probably takes a lot to do them with the amount of precision that Hermione obviously did at the beginning of DH.


End file.
